


Love. Letters. Lost.

by Naoe



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, Childhood Friends, Childhood Sweethearts, Doctor Dean Winchester, Duke Castiel, Georgian Period, London, M/M, Minor Character Deaths, POV Castiel, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, Regency food is gross, Some minor underage action, time period diseases
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-13
Updated: 2017-12-13
Packaged: 2019-02-10 22:32:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12921600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naoe/pseuds/Naoe
Summary: Castiel Allen met Dean Winchester when they were children, and even then he thought he was perfect. Then they were separated by time and necessity, each of them growing up in a vastly different world than the other.So when they meet again, the sparkling young boy Castiel fell in love with as a child has grown into a capable, beautiful man he wants to love all over again.But Regency London is not kind to men who love men, and Dean is not the child he used to be. Will Castiel, Duke of Milton, lose him again?





	1. 1792-1794

**Author's Note:**

> This was a hard piece for me. Like unbelievably difficult. It was like pulling teeth for me to get the writing gods to move me for various reasons.
> 
> I want to note here that there is one brief moment of underage touching, but nothing is at all graphic. They're 14/16 and, in my mind, it's a lot of heavy petting. No oral. Nothing penetrative. It's also a memory, and although it's important, it's not super descriptive. More detail later, but it is _important_ for many reasons.
> 
> That done, I need to thank Stkirsch and Shipperslist for beta'ing. Thanks, ladies! 
> 
> Also, please suspend your belief when it comes to Dean not working at age 8 in the late 18th Century. He should be slaving away with his father by that age, but I am ignoring it.
> 
>  **NOTE:** This story is complete, but I'm editing it and fluffing it out. I will post on Tuesdays, because why not?
> 
>  **ALSO NOTE:** If you have ANY questions, please ask. If you have any CONSTRUCTIVE criticism, please tell me. I'm not an ogre about me fucking up. I'm human, not a robot.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Responsiblities

# Prologue:

The Allens were a powerful family, proud and rich, who kept mostly to themselves in order to stave away gambling and addictions. Instead, they promoted a rich life of hard work and abstemious living on their lands, including the small village that had grown on the outskirts of Milton Manor.

Otherwise known as the Duke and Duchess of Milton, or Lord and Lady Allen, they were quite hands-on and did not fancy leaving their homes for the New World while England broke out into battles over Catholicism and Protestantism. They wisely kept their religious leanings to themselves, stayed in the country to build up their estate, and when Elizabeth I took her last breath, their family too relaxed as religious persecution seemed to fade with her passing.

Or they did until the Civil War erupted over Charles I proclivities towards Catholicism and the War bloomed into Oliver Cromwell’s Commonwealth.

Again, they somehow managed to stay away from the battle, although two of their sons were lost in the battle against Charles. They carried the grief into and through Charles II’s brief reign and were again grieving as they lost children to more war and strife during the even shorter reign of James II, and survived through the last of the Stuart kings by careful stewardship of their lands and delicate handling of their religious preferences. They were stoutly protestants with Puritan leanings, and had no regrets on the matter, even as the William of Orange, married to James II’s oldest daughter (and his cousin) took over the reign of England.

It was around this time the Allens began to spread their wings, investing in properties in the American Colonies and in the West Indies. Sugar, rum, tobacco, and slaves were excellent investments, as were silk and cotton cloth from India.

Their monies grew and more of their kin spent time at court, some left to oversee the lands, some left to seek their fortunes, and some even married and bought lands of their own, crisscrossing genealogical lines for the good of their properties and name.

It was this point, in September 1782, that Master James Castiel Allen was born to Lady Naomi Allen and Lord Zachariah Allen.

This is where our story begins.

# Chapter 1: 1792

Master James Castiel Allen–titled Marquess Angewood at birth–was an odd duck in his family. Although he was the eldest child and only boy, he was quite somber and contemplative. His nanny did not know what to make of the boy, who rarely spoke, and, even more rarely, laughed.

Because of his quiet nature, Castiel (as he preferred to be called) was often left to his own pursuits, which admittedly was either sitting somewhere reading or playing with one of the animals on the estate.

This was held true until he was ten and told he would be helping about the estate to groom him for its takeover.

“After all,” his Father declared, “There is no point to it if you do not understand how it is done. That is how money is pilfered by servants and land lost to taxes.”

As such, one morning he was led outside by the head gardener and shown to a small plot of land, two chickens in a wooden crate, and a tethered goat.

“Yer to make a chicken coop and a pen for the goat,” the man said, pushing up the brim of his woven straw hat, “’Is Grace suggested I start ye up with the garden and yer to tend it on yer own.”

At Castiel’s concerned expression, he added, “I’ll show ye how it’s done, youn’ master. Don’ye worry.”

And so began Castiel’s practical education.                  

* * *

It was not two days later when Castiel awoke at dawn to see to his livestock, only to find the simple pen he and the head gardener had erected had collapsed on one side and his goat nowhere to be found. Scowling, he fed his chickens and then followed the small indentations of goat hooves in the soft earth.

They led into the woods on the far side of the estate, where Castiel was not supposed to go alone.

Annoyed, Castiel fetched some rope to bind the goat and, again, followed the prints into the woods.

At that hour of the day, the woods were darker than he liked, and since he was not really permitted to explore them quite yet, every sound startled him. Castiel was not a fearful child, but he was not precisely brave either. His broad imagination, however, fed with hundreds of tales of pixies and witches, was quite overactive and he was hard put not to shy away from shadows and rustling leaves.

But he kept following the tracks until he stepped out into a break in the woods at the bank of a stream.

The sunlight filtered down and made everything sparkle with gold highlights, and, after the darkness of the woods, it took his vision a moment to acclimate.

As such, with his imagination on fire and his eyesight a bit off, he swore he saw a fairy standing at the edge of the stream petting what looked like his goat. The fairy had light brown hair with gold threads, and his skin was a golden tan.

Castiel, alarmed because he could not remember how to greet a fairy, was then relieved when the figure looked up and saw him, a smile on its face.

A beautiful smile on its face.

 _Fairies are beautiful and they steal firstborn sons_ , Castiel thought as his mind attempted to regain traction. _I’m a firstborn son. Will it take me away?_

But the figure, now that his eyes had adjusted, was not a fairy, but a young boy in a tattered shirt that might have once been white and short pants, his green eyes glowing with golden sunlight. _They looked like they had kept some of the light inside them_ , Castiel thought, staring.

“Hullo!” The boy was tugging the goat along and feeding it what looked like a small apple. “Is this fellow yers? I found ‘im while playin’ ‘ere!”

The boy was shoeless and there were smudges of mud along his jaw and under his left eye as he grinned at Castiel. “Is ‘e yers? I always fancied playin’ with a goat!”

There was, Castiel realized, a tooth missing from the happy grin, but it didn’t stop it from being open and plainly joyful to meet him. That was rare in Castiel’s life and he nervously replied, “She is mine. I am to figure out how to get milk from her.”

Those green eyes grew large and excitement made the boy shuffle in place. “Milk! I’d love to see that! Mum gets ours from the neighbor, trades it for bread!” He frowned a bit. “They say I’m too small ta do anything, but I’m eight! I ken do anythin’! Soon, I’ll be an adult!”

He stood up taller, and Castiel had to chuckle. “I am ten,” he offered softly.

If possible, the boy’s eyes got bigger. “Coo! Yer big already! Why are ye out chasin’ a goat?”

Castiel rubbed a hand over his forearm nervously. “It… my Father said I must learn the value of things and gave her to me. But I do not really know how to take care of her, and the pen I built has already collapsed.”

The boy blinked. “Ye use big words.”

Squinting, Castiel replied, “Do I? I-I apologize.” Nervously again, and not wanting to drive the boy away, he added, “My name is Castiel. I…I am not used to speaking to anyone. I mostly read and keep to myself.”

The boy looked to mouth his name and snorted. “Thas a mouthful. Ken I call ye Cas?”

Now Castiel blinked in astonishment. “You wish to grant me a sobriquet?”

“A wha’? Ye talk funny fer a 10-year old.” The boy scowled and said definitively, “I’m just gonna call ye Cas.”

For some reason, that made Castiel smile broadly and he nodded.

The boy grinned back, unabashed, missing tooth and all, and jerked a thumb at his chest. “I’m Dean! Let’s get yer goat back and see if we can fix the pen! I’m good at building! My Dad is a blacksmith!”

* * *

Time passed with Castiel learning much from Dean in the way of practical living. Dean was well-versed in building things, as he said, and he learned quickly anything that Castiel gave him.

One such thing was a love of reading.

It had surprised Castiel that Dean could neither read nor write, and, for that matter, had never seen a book.

“It just takes space,” he grumbled, but he did learn what Castiel taught him, and they spent many afternoons under the trees like that. He learned to write too, and that, it seemed, was a bigger accomplishment for Dean.

“No one in my family ken write!” He grinned at Castiel and took his hand warmly. “Thank you, Cas! Now I ken show my little brother!”

And that was also a bit of a sore subject. Dean’s little brother, Sam, had been sickly since birth and not allowed out of their house. He couldn’t breathe well, and their mother worried about Sam getting sicker.

“He’s just a runt now,” Dean had confided while swinging a stick at cattails along the stream, “But I bet when he grows up, he’ll be a giant of a man! Like the Green Knight!”

Dean was made of energy and the story of _Gawain and the Green Knight_ had excited him a great deal.

Dean, Castiel thought, was really so lovely. He watched Dean dance around the waving cattails, pretending they were enemies come to steal his imaginary princess away. The sun was high above them, and Dean was sweating a bit so his skin was dewy, his eyes were bright and joyful, and he suddenly turned to Castiel and grinned widely, his hand spread out behind him, reaching back for Castiel.

“C’mon Cas! I’ll keep ye safe from the monsters!”

Years later, when he thought on it, Castiel was certain that was the moment he fell in love.

* * *

The year Castiel was doomed to go to Eton, things changed. The winter had been particularly harsh, and he heard less from Dean than he liked. He tried to sneak out, sneak away through the woods, over the stream, and at the edges of the Allen land and the tiny village there, but he was consistently caught and brought back.

Sourly, he found he despised waiting, and he found no way to escape the vigilance of his Father’s servants.

So, when April finally allowed the first green to push out of the frozen ground, he was allowed out to try and tend his tiny garden. The chickens had been moved back with the others, and he had given his goat to Dean, and simply told his Father she had wandered off.

He didn’t really care about the garden. He wanted to see Dean, his best and only friend in his childhood. Castiel was to be thirteen come September, and off to the boarding school the same month.

Perhaps he simply knew that good things could not last forever, but he was sure that his bond with Dean would. Dean had just turned ten himself, and Castiel had even brought the gift he had gotten for him: a journal of fine leather and soft paper pages. He also had a book–a slim volume of Jonathan Swift’s _A Modest Proposal_ –that he thought Dean might find interesting. He had stolen it from his Father’s library, but he doubted he would miss it.

After all, last September, Dean had made Castiel a bookmark of wood and burned a round-shaped goat picture into it, laughing as he handed it to him for his birthday and giving him a blue and grey scarf his mother had made. “I think it’d suit ye better!”

Castiel ran to the stream, hoping Dean would think to be there too, ignoring the faint pain of roots that grabbed at his feet or the twigs and branches that tried to slow him down. He burst into the clearing, panting, and looked around for Dean.

Dean was there, standing on the bank, staring at the sky. His breath plumed around him but the sun struck him solidly, bathing him in light like it had the first time they had met. Dean turned slowly to look at Castiel, and Castiel sucked in a frightened breath, as there was something sad in Dean’s face that suddenly made him want to cry.

“Dean…” He cried out, “What happened?”

Dean, in his oversized cloak and worn shoes, shuddered out a breath and looked away, his eyes watery and red.

“It’s Sam,” he murmured as Castiel took his hand and wove their fingers together. “The winter was very hard on him. Dad says we're goin' to move to Bath so he can take the waters there and try and get better.”

“Move…away?” The idea stunned Castiel. For two years, the two of them had been inseparable. For two years, he had loved this boy who he was sure was going to grow into a great man.

Dean’s fingers tightened and he nodded. “We’re leavin' as soon as the roads are passable. Dad's gone ahead to find a place and work for him.”

Swallowing hard and trying to hold his tears back, Castiel said, “I am to go to Eton in September regardless. Perhaps I can visit you in Bath?”

Dean chuckled and tugged Castiel in for a hug. He smelled of iron and cinnamon and frost. “A fine gent like ye aren’t gonna wanna come play with a blacksmith’s son,” he said sadly, rubbing his cheek against Castiel’s overcoat. “But yer always welcome.”

Castiel clutched the green-eyed boy with stiff, desperate fingers. _Always welcome_. It was more than he had ever received from his own family.

He shifted a bit, causing Dean to shuffle back a step, and pulled his gifts from the inner pocket of his coat. He shyly handed them over, feeling his face heat at Dean's curious expression. “I hope you enjoy these gifts.”

Dean’s green eyes widened in surprise and he grinned. “More gifts, Cas? Ye don’ have to! My gift is seein' ye! Ye even gave me yer goat!”

Castiel shook his head and pressed the gifts on Dean. “I missed your birthday. I just wanted you to have something other than Abby." He shrugged one shoulder. "It is not much, by my reckoning.”

Dean grinned again, releasing Castiel's hand, and pulled the brown paper wrapping off. “A… mou-dest…purr-poe-seal,” he carefully read, his eyes flicking up to Cas bashfully. “Did I read it right?”

Castiel smiled kindly. “Close. ‘A Modest Proposal.’”

“So close,” Dean murmured, stroking over the cover with his thin gloves with holes in them. He carefully put it in the pocket of his oversized coat and pulled the other gift from under his arm. He ripped off the paper again and the leather journal was swiftly revealed.

Dean was speechlessly staring at it, opening the soft brown leather to find the quote “Rare as is true love, true friendship is rarer. Jean de La Fontaine” inside the front cover. “Cas, this…this is beautiful. I don’ deserve this!”

Cas pulled Dean into a hug and murmured, “Now you have means to write to me. Please, Dean, I implore you: write to me. Always.”

Dean nodded into Castiel’s shoulder. “All right, Cas. I promise.”

* * *

The Winchester family’s move from the village was a quiet affair. The village would suffer without a blacksmith, but Sam was only getting worse. They had only been waiting for warmer weather to leave.

They chose a day at the end of May.

Castiel fled his responsibilities to see them off in the morning. They were planning to get as much distance as possible, as the weather and roads permitted.

Breaking into the edge of the village center, Castiel spied the family prepared to leave. He found Dean trying to look adult, standing next to his Father as the village leader spoke to him solemnly. Sam and Mary appeared to be in the carriage already, the family having saved and even received funds from the villagers to afford the ride. Castiel had also passed on some of his pin money; anything to help Dean.

Nervous about interrupting the adults (and never having met Dean's Father), Castiel called to Dean from the edge of the woods, beckoning him when he got the green eyes to look over.

Dean slyly looked up at his Father and slipped away, running towards Castiel with an exuberant grin. 

“Cas, what are ye doin’ ere?” Dean said, gripping Castiel’s hands with his smaller one, the holes in his gloves having been lovingly darned. It was very different from Castiel's life. His torn clothing was sent to the church as charity, not lovingly maintained by his Mother.

“I wanted to see you off,” Castiel replied, gripping back, inhaling Dean's scent of iron, cinnamon, and frost. “I am going to miss you.”

Drooping a bit and smiling sadly, Dean said, “I’m gonna miss ye too.”

Castiel handed Dean two wrapped packages that were obviously books, and he said, “One of them is for Sam. I am sure you will teach him how to read.”

Dean nodded. "I will!" Behind them, Dean’s Father called out for him, for him to get a move on, and tears sprang into Dean’s eyes. “I will see you again,” he said firmly. “I love you, Cas!”

It gave Castiel a moment before Dean surged up the two inches that separated them, and kissed him on the mouth.

While Castiel stood in utter shock at being kissed, Dean clutched the two books to his chest and ran back to his Father, who shooed him into the carriage and followed him in.

Dean fought for the window, and Castiel watched as they rolled out of town.

His fingers touched his lips wonderingly.

How was he going to live without Dean?


	2. 1794-1798

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Good-byes...

The first letter Castiel received from Dean was not very long. After all, Dean was not accustomed to writing in general, and his vocabulary still required work. Add that he was only ten, and the fact it was five words long and misspelled wasn’t surprising. 

> _Dear Cas_
> 
> _We gots her. Abbys fin. Miss yu._
> 
> _D_

Regardless, Castiel kept the letter and put it in a special box. He read it over and over, smiling. He wrote back too, wondering if that was appropriate, but he never used his title. Merely mentioned his Mother gave birth to another baby girl, and that the baby, Anna, had red hair.

Over the next few months, Castiel received perhaps one letter a month. It was fortunate that the postage was paid by his family when it arrived, otherwise he wasn’t sure how Dean would be able to afford it.

Although it was risky, Castiel paid ahead of time for his own letters to Dean. Post-boys tended to not be as careful as they should, and paying ahead of time gave them less reason to care about their packages. Still, there was not anything of value in the letters, being only correspondence, and Castiel made good use of his parents not always noting he was receiving letters.

Yes, he had had to beg their butler, Ion, not to share the information, but Ion was fond of Castiel, so he got away with it handily.

Then, in September, Castiel was forced to go to Eton and live in the dormitories. It was purely hell, as they were drafty, damp, and there was no privacy. He gave into his needs when someone stole all of his wool socks, requesting his Father allow him to move into one of the more private boarding homes that were available for privileged young men. Oh, and to send him some socks, if he would, as his had been stolen and the stone floors were terribly cold.

His Father did seem rather irritated, saying that the regular boarding house had been enough for him, for _his_ father, and his _father’s_ father. However, in light of there being a thief in the place-unheard of in _his_ day–that it would be acceptable. No son of the Allen family was going to be persistently persecuted, especially the heir to the Duke of Milton.

Castiel basically read it as his Father’s typical blathering, and happily moved to the recommended new rooms at Dame Jody Mills’ house, along with several pairs of new wool socks from his Mother. It was a great move up from the dormitories, and she even provided one meal a day, two if paid in advance.

It was also a blessing because he could receive and send correspondence more freely, as long as he had the coin. Although his Father perhaps thought Castiel would spend his money wildly by sending what might be thought a modest amount–which frankly indicated how well he knew his son–he still provided a large allowance for school necessities and pin money for himself. It was more than enough to stow some away, as Castiel mostly spent funds on supplementing his socks and on _fun_ books. As usual, he didn't care much about money or position. Let the other boys jostle around and posture for the higher echelons. He merely wanted to be left alone to read and complete his studies.

When he could, Castiel explained all this in a letter to Dean, adding that he really despised the other boys, who were used to being pampered thanks to their good names. They so often used their future social positions to leverage favor and to bully the other lads, especially those there on scholarships. He also revealed that he rarely spoke of his position and that the fact he was the heir to Milton Manor was enough to have many shallow young men try to cleave unto him. He did very well academically, true, and he worked hard to make his mark, but he loathed bullies and most of the young men of his class were nothing more than better-dressed asses than the rest of humanity.

In return, Dean began writing again.  

> _Dear Cas,_
> 
> _I am glad to hear you are ajustin to life there. I have been lucki that I ken keep writin. Sam is not doin to well. We have doktors here every day. Dad says I have to help at the smithy. But theres a Dr. Singer who says he wants me to work with him. I ken read a bit and he says that’ll be useful. He will be paying me a haf-shilln for my time! I get to sweep and learn mor readin’ and about doctrin. Its amzing._
> 
> _Thank you, Cas._
> 
> _D_

It made Castiel proud to see Dean prospering. It was difficult to concentrate on Latin conjugations when his best friend was learning to be a doctor so far away. He wrote back that he had passed his Latin exam, and that he was having some problems with the maths, but he would keep working hard. He missed being free to enjoy nature with his friend and that he even missed Abby the goat. He was not allowed pets in the boarding house.

Months later, a new letter from Dean arrived.  

 

> _Dear Cas,_
> 
> _Things are real hard here. Mum hasn’t been feeling well. Dad is upset and drinks every day. Bobby, thas Dr Singer, says some men do not have the strength for illness._
> 
> _I have to get strong, it seems._
> 
> _Sam isn’t getting better. He has takin Mum getting sick badly. Says its ‘is fault. Why am I so healthy when he is so sick?_
> 
> _D_

It was alarming, really, that Dean was suffering so while he, Castiel, only had worries about school and bullies. The school mostly viewed the rough play between the lads as preparing them for later engagements. Swordplay was considered a gentleman's knowledge, and they had days where they played on the fields, running with a greased wooden ball with the only objective to gain hold of it and carry it into the opposition's territory by any means necessary. It was all very dull. Many of the boys who played would later become soldiers, unlike Castiel, who–as the only heir–was not expected to go into battle and die in some distant land. 

Not that France was all that distant, but it wasn’t home.

Time passed with Castiel in classes about ancient things, ancient thoughts, ancient ideas: Plato, Aristotle, Pythagoras, and Copernicus. Old things.

It was so dull that Castiel hated to write to Dean about it. It was repetitive. Nothing like the vibrant (and painful) life Dean was enduring, as Castiel was an excellent student, who rarely spoke out, rarely was birched, rarely was chastened.

It was as such that Castiel felt that he blinked and it was 1798.

* * *

_Dear Cas,_

_I will be in London in June. I would like to see you. Is that possible?_

_D_

Castiel–now 16–stared at the missive, perplexed. He was completing his second year at Eton, with one more to go. The school half would not be over until late June…was that soon enough?

He wrote back that he needed more specific dates, but that it might be possible. He also wrote a missive to his cousin Gabriel. Gabriel was in the King’s Army, but he kept rooms in London and had often asked his quieter cousin to come visit him. Castiel decided to indulge him at the end of the half, if that was possible.

Not that Castiel wanted to stay with Gabriel (he was no fan of wine, women, and song) but he did want to see Dean, and he would not be given much freedom otherwise as a sixteen-year-old to simply lark off to London.

It also disturbed him that Dean sent him such an urgent message. That was not like Dean, but it had also been several months since he had heard from his friend.

A month later, Castiel had received a letter from both Gabriel–which was frighteningly gleeful–and from Dean, stating it would be late June, possibly early July, as there were things left to arrange.

It was odd wording.

Odder yet, Dean said nothing more.

It left Castiel to worry as the school’s half moved on.

* * *

To say Castiel was nervous would have been an understatement.

His correspondence with Dean was one of the few bright events in his life. As Dean had grown more proficient at writing, his letters had gotten longer.

But the last two were very abrupt and said nothing about his little brother.

That alone was worth worrying about, as Dean loved to write about his sickly little brother.

Castiel was sitting in the library, brooding over Dean’s letters and his nervousness about meeting him after all this time, when Captain Gabriel Allen waltzed in in his shirtsleeves, a bottle under one arm, and two glasses in his other.

“Cousin,” he called cheerfully, “I do swear that seeing you so downtrodden is positively dreary! This is the first time in five years that I have seen you, and yet you choose to stay in my library.” Gabriel snorted. “I only keep the library to seem fashionable.”

Castiel turned to face him and rolled his eyes. “Indeed, I saw you had a corner for salacious books.”

Put down the glasses with a click, winking at his glowering cousin. “How better to let people know what I offer?”

Castiel huffed as Gabriel threw himself into the chair opposite his and poured out two measures of what smelled like port. “So, little cousin, what brings you to London? Madness? Illness? Carnal needs? Heaven knows it's not to see me.”

Coloring hotly at the 'carnal' insinuation, Castiel struggled to ignore all of them. “I received a missive from my friend that he would be here. I have not seen him in years now, and it sounded rather urgent.”

Humming, Gabriel took a sip of his port and pushed the other glass towards Castiel with a finger. “Sounds dire. And dull.”

“Anything that is not women, wine, and sweets is dull to you,” Castiel complained, putting down his book with a small snap and taking up the glass. He took a small sip. It was too sweet and he fought gagging.

Gabriel chuckled. “Cannot handle the good stuff, hm? Well, I have some hot chocolate somewhere. Mrs. Edgeton would know.”

Mrs. Edgeton, Castiel knew, was Gabriel’s housekeeper. Without her, his rooms would descend into the chaos of a bawdy house. (He didn’t know _exactly_ what went on in a bawdy house, but he was _sure_ of it.)

“You do not need to entertain me, Gabriel,” Castiel said, pushing the glass back towards his cousin. “I am fine waiting for Dean.”

“Surely I can at the very least take you to your first brothel! You’re 16! It’s beyond time for you to engage in the goodness of the opposite sex!”

Castiel paled at the enthusiastic glee on Gabriel’s face. “I-I do not think it’s appropriate…I…no, don’t think I can…”

“Sure you can!” Gabriel winked at him again and raised his mostly empty glass. “It’s a step into adulthood, lifting a woman’s legs!”

It honestly sounded appalling and Castiel recoiled. Up until that moment, he had still found no attraction to women, and scarcely any allure in other men. “Please spare me. I have no interest in such things!”

“Perhaps because you’ve yet to experience them, Cousin!”

Castiel doubted that was the reason. He felt a hard heat surge up his face, followed by the feeling he had a headache looming from the changes in his disposition. “I feel I am not quite ready for such things. However, please remember that you have permitted me to have Dean stay over so we may talk at leisure.”

Gabriel snorted. “Two boys. How utterly dull. Unless you’re a sodomite, then perhaps it might be interesting.” He eyed his young cousin, whose face was still red. “Mind you, I care not. Buttocks or busts, there is something enticing to be found.” He finished with a lewd grin and a swirl to his port before emptying his glass.

“I’m to bed. I’m on duty tomorrow,” he said as he stood, running a fond hand through Castiel’s hair, “and you’ll be sure to tell me when your guest arrives.”

“Of course.”

“Good.”

* * *

Because he was not old enough to participate in many “adult” activities, as it were, Castiel avoided all other people that were gentry and up. Sixteen was just old enough to go out into London alone, but not old enough to attend to fussy meetings and greetings.

He had given Dean Gabriel’s address when he had last written, but Dean had seemed uncomfortable with coming to the front door, and he shouldn’t enter through the back. That left Castiel meeting him somewhere and their both entering from the front. At least, that’s what Castiel thought was the issue.

What else could it be?

Instead, Dean had requested to meet at St. Paul’s Cathedral, which was odd because Castiel was more than a little certain Dean wasn’t religious?

Regardless, it was an adventure! Castiel had never been to the tallest building in London, designed by Sir Christopher Wren! He took a hackney cab and watched the world pass-by with wide eyes.

He had never been to London, really. His parents had preferred country living, although Hannah would soon be preparing to be presented. Thankfully, he would be at Cambridge at that point, avoiding the chaos and tedium of husband hunting.

Too soon, it seemed, he found himself in front of St. Paul’s, the huge stone steps intimidating. The cabbie looked over Castiel as he handed him the fare and said, “Ye shouldn’t be ‘ere, sir. A young thing like ye amongst tha mollies an’ tha like! Ain’t decent!”

Wide-eyed and uncertain as to what the man was referring to, Castiel nodded and headed through the throng of people.

The building itself looked fat and squat, as it took up a lot of space. But it was so tall! He’d never seen the like! He peered up to try and see the spires, but he was too close and ended up squinting hopelessly.

“It’s tall, isn’t it?”

Castiel paused in his gawking and turned to face the voice.

A familiar face beamed at him, all green and gold, and speckled with freckles. He wasn’t as tall as Castiel yet, being younger, but he had certainly grown. If nothing else, he would need to grow into his ears, Castiel thought with a grin, ignoring his own gangly frame.

“Dean!” He cried and wrapped his arms around his friend. They hugged tightly for a moment, a warm memory of their youthful playtime coming to the fore, before Castiel stepped away and patted Dean heartily on the shoulder. “I am so happy to see you! You look marvelous! So grown up!”

Dean laughed. “I was about to say the same, young Master! Sixteen looks good on you!”

Castiel scowled and rebuffed, “Dean, please don’t call me that. I have known you since we were children. It’s Cas to you!”

Dean pressed his lips together and blushed a bit, bringing out the freckles on his cheekbones. “Won’t always be like that, Cas,” he said humbly, “You’re to be a Lord one day, a fine Duke of the realm! A common boy like me shouldn’t address you so casually.”

Castiel shook his head and grasped Dean’s arm, pulling him along. “Nonsense! You are always welcome to call me Cas. That is for you and you only.” He grinned and pointed at the building. “Now, come along! Let us get a look at this place. _Sir Christopher Wren_ designed it after the Great Fire! Did you know? I am reading some of his work in astronomy! He was inspired by the architect and sculptor Bernini! Imagine!”

Chuckling at Castiel’s enthusiasm, Dean followed along, both of them grinning all the way.

* * *

For some reason he couldn’t account for, Castiel was nervous.

He was not of a particularly nervous disposition, but having Dean stay in his guest room with him was certainly having that effect.

Gabriel, although wealthy and bearing a noble lineage, did not keep lodgings at a hotel like many other soldiers. The Allens were quite well off enough that his stipend allowed him to live at more luxurious places, and Mrs. Edgeton’s lodging house was quite privately kept for well-to-do officers like Gabriel. The lodgers in such places also paid handsomely for their lodgings and required introductions and sureties that most men could not get.

Most soldiers were not an Allen.

But it was still rented space, and although Gabriel did have a private library and study, as well as a large private room with a dressing room attached, he only had a single spare room that he generally used to store things from his travels.

The room had a much smaller bed, but there was nowhere else for a guest to stay, and Gabriel was not going to give up his comfortable bed for Castiel and his guest. Or so he had informed them at supper.

"I am happy to have you here, young Winchester," the Captain said with a leer, "Castiel has been positively _aflame_ with anticipation in seeing you again. It's unfortunate that I have meetings to attend to and will not be at home to entertain you both, but I suspect you already have plans?"

This last was directed to Castiel, who nodded shortly, and was not-so-inconspicuously gripping Dean's hand under the table, regardless of manners or demeanor.

Gabriel huffed a laugh, and took a serving of trifle, piling on extra stewed apples. "I see. Well, I shan't get in your way then, young Cousin. You and your friend will have to share the guest room, but at least the weather is mild so sharing a bed will be tolerable."

This was how Castiel had found himself in his nightshirt with an equally bare Dean. It made him blush fiercely to see his friend in so little, even if he could see nothing at all aside from a bit of his neck and his feet.

Dean settled himself across from Castiel on the bed, the one candle on the nightstand lending him a glow that was entrancing. It left Castiel wondering if he would ever get over his boyhood friend?

“So, Cas,” Dean said, smiling as he tucked his nightshirt around his legs, “Tell me everything! I’m sure I haven’t heard the half of it!”

Castiel chuckled. “I am afraid to tell you that I have spent a great deal of time studying Latin, and that is it.” He titled his head a bit and added, “Well, because my Father pays for it, I have been given tutoring in Italian and French, but that is honestly all there is.”

Humming, Dean asked, “What about your lodgings? No trouble there?”

“Not particularly–well, none since I moved into Mills House. Before I did experience a bit of bullying, but it was mild compared to some others.” He smiled softly. “I mostly stay to myself and try to avoid attention, but that is difficult occasionally, as I have some rowdy friends.”

Laughing, Castiel started talking about Balthazar and Ezekiel, one a complete menace to the village girls, the other proper and hard working. He talked a bit about his lodgings and how he had to purchase his own food for meals, as they were not included.

“That had been a shock,” he concluded as Dean guffawed, “I had to learn basic foods, but I am no cook!”

Dean grinned at him and took his hand. “Your life sounds so interesting to someone who has never been to school.”

Castiel wove their fingers together and asked, “What about you? Why are you in London so suddenly?”

Humming, Dean dragged his thumb across the back of Castiel’s hand and said, “Things…are not so well with me and mine.”

“Dean…” Castiel leaned forward more and scooted closer. “What has happened?”

Dean heaved a heavy sigh and said, softly, “Sammy… didn’t make it through the winter. His lungs couldn’t withstand it.”

“Oh, Dean…” Castiel gathered his friend even closer, hugging him tightly. He knew how much Sam had meant to Dean, and his loss was undoubtedly deeply, darkly felt.

“–that’s…not all.” He fiddled with Castiel’s nightshirt and whispered, “Mum died soon after. Dad was often gone since Mum was sick. Then, she died. Bobby said it was the wasting disease and there was no saving her.”

“Oh, my poor Dean…”

Castiel wasn’t surprised to feel his nightshirt get damp under Dean’s face. “I tried, Cas. Bobby is the best doctor I know, and even he couldn’t save them. So I tried to stay with them and take care of them, but…they still died.”

“You are still mostly a child, Dean. If an adult could not cure them, how were you going to do it?”

“I don’t know.”

Castiel petted his head and back as he hugged him, barely catching what Dean whispered next, “Cas, I’m leaving England with Bobby.”

Stiffening, Castiel paused in his petting.

“Bobby wants to look for new ways to study medicine, and he’s taking me with him.”

“W-what about your father?”

Dean heaved a sigh and said with irritation, “My Father had been having an affair with a woman named Kate, ever since Mum got ill. When she and Sammy died, he moved in with her and left me to Bobby as a ward.”

Castiel shook his head against Dean's shoulder. “I cannot believe that of your father.”

Snorting, Dean said bitterly, “They already have a child on the way, Cas.”

Castiel was unsure what to say to that. It wasn’t unheard of for a man to seek solace in another woman, but to abandon his child to do so…? Well, but what did Castiel know of the world? He hadn’t seen his own parents in years now. He leaned back to face a red-eyed Dean, gripping the younger man's upper arms.

“When are you leaving, then?” He girded himself, but was still broken when Dean answered, “This week. Bobby is preparing everything for our journey, but we will be catching a ship to the Orient as soon as we can.”

“The Orient?” Castiel asked faintly.

“He says they have ways of curing things that we do not know of, and he wants to collect that knowledge.”

Swallowing hard, Castiel nodded. “I understand. But I will miss you so much."

Exhausted, they held each other tightly as they fell into troubled sleep.

* * *

The next few days were some of the best in Castiel’s young life. Dean always brought so much exuberance to everything he did, and they spent a great deal of time exploring and talking. It was, Castiel was happy to discover, as if they had never parted.

Despite everything, Dean continued to hold Castiel’s hand when he could, matching his own desires to keep Dean close. At sixteen and fourteen, most people paid them little to no attention.

After all, boys will be boys.

At night, they talked about Sammy and Mary, about how Sammy had loved reading, and the book Castiel had given him had been one of his favorites.

“I barely had to teach him,” Dean bragged, “He picked it up much faster than me!”

“I find that hard to believe,” Castiel murmured, clutching Dean’s hand. “You picked it up so quickly.”

Dean chuckled and shook his head. “Sam…was very clever. If he hadn’t gotten deathly ill so early on, I wonder what he might have become…”

“Prime Minister,” Castiel deadpanned.

“You’re joking, but he might’ve! He was so…smart.” Dean sagged a bit, grief rolling off him. “I… I wasn’t sure you’d see me, Cas. I was worried that hanging about a lot of smart buggers might’ve made you cold.”

“Dean,” Castiel replied, moving closer so their knees touched, “No matter who I am accustomed to ‘hanging about with,’ I will never reject you. You are my best friend in the world.”

Green eyes peeked up through long, dark lashes, and, mischievously, Dean leaned forward to drop a chaste kiss on Castiel’s lips. “Thank you, Cas. You’re mine as well. Forever.”

A bit dazed but ecstatic, Castiel echoed, “Forever!”

* * *

A few days later, Dean was gone, and Castiel felt his heart break.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Bernini:** Famous Italian sculptor and architect from 17th C.
> 
>  **Hackney Cab:** The cab type used before Hansom Cabs came into fashion mid-19th C.  
>  **(School) Half:** Eton divided their year into "halves" like semesters or quarters.
> 
>  **Mollies:** men who dressed and acted like women. There was always a ‘safe house’ or two where men who preferred other men or preferred to dress as women met, and they were generally called a “Molly House.”
> 
>  **For the record:** I'm not sure if the term "transgender" works here, because the term is anachronistic to the early 19th Century, and I am not qualified to judge whether or not they were based on behavior. There are a few accounts that I would say yes to, but mind most of those examples were also hanged, imprisoned, or killed themselves, so it just makes me sad.  
>   
>  **St. Paul Cathedral:** It was a meeting place for men interested in other men, such as ‘mollies’ and male prostitutes. Random sex often occurred on the (holy) grounds. At least 2 men were pilioned for being caught in the act.
> 
>  **Sir Christopher Wren:** Famous British scientist and architect from 17th C, especially following the Great Fire of London in 1666.


	3. 1812

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello...maybe?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Within is the brief underage scene. If it bothers you, it is offset and italicized.

The Duke of Milton, Lord James Castiel Allen, was a handsome bachelor of thirty, with no prospective wife in sight and several thousand pounds a year to be comfortable with, or so the wags of the _bon ton_ liked to say.

The truth was Castiel hated the Season and much preferred to stay at his country manor the whole year through than engage with society’s empty-headed baggage being trotted before him like a horse show.

It made him ill.

Yet, here he was, back in London, and opening the House for Anna’s debut. Hannah, his sister now-married to a Mr. Johnson, was practically aglow with getting to take Anna shopping and even–they dared hope–collect more of a trousseau than they already had.

“After all,” Hannah said over breakfast, “There will have been new shipments of fine dishware and bolts of bright new cloth for Anna to keep!”

She ignored how he completely disregarded her statements by muttering, “Just send me the bills, Hannah.”

 _There is no woman in all creation_ , Castiel thought as Anna joined them at the table and they both clapped their hands at the idea of shopping, _who does not enjoy the thought of spending as they wish and not minding the bills._

He didn’t really mind, as he had no intention of marrying. He had continued to age even as the women paraded for his approval seemed to get younger and more airheaded. _Would it hurt them to read something other than novels,_ he wondered as he chewed on his marmalade-coated toast.

Indeed, after their parents had passed of influenza not five years past, Castiel had improved many of the agricultural practices at Milton Manor. His focus was on instating new methods and overall improve crops for everyone who worked the fields.

He had been successful, and the Manor–as well as the village–was thriving.

Thus, engaged in serious agricultural studies, managing his Father’s investments in the Colonies and in the West Indies, the Allens were doing well monetarily.

Now if Hannah would stop harping about a mistress for the Manor, his life would be nigh perfect.

Of course, sponsoring Anna’s debut was important, being the youngest–and most mischievous–Allen of their generation. Hannah had already spawned twice, but those imps had been kept at her husband’s house for the Season.

Thank God.

Still, night after night of accompanying ladyfolk to balls, parties, rides through Hyde Park, and attending theater was exhausting for a man who preferred isolation more than social interaction.

Especially after Dean’s letters stopped coming some seven years ago, he had decided that the property had more interest to him than gambling and women (as Gabriel attempted to tempt him before he, too, was sent to France).

So, he had even avoided the typical vices that inflicted most gentlemen around him: gambling, prostitution, and getting fat (which inevitably forced them to become debt-ridden, syphilis-riddled, and gouty).

Regardless, London had lost most of its charm after his time with Dean. He both loved and hated to think of that time because…of Dean. Beautiful Dean.

Catching himself, Castiel coughed and left the rest of his breakfast, pausing long enough to finish his tea before heading upstairs. He had people to visit to ensure Anna would be invited to the best balls and parties, and it was best done from his Gentleman’s Club.

As he changed for the afternoon, he considered his options and told his valet he would be taking a hackney cab to his club. He would most likely get a ride back from Balthazar, Lord Newton, who _adored_ London and its darkest corners. Balthazar had been Castiel’s fellow boarder for many years and they had struck an odd friendship because of it. It did not surprise Castiel that Gabriel and Balthazar, having met through him, had soon become bosom friends despite the difference in age.

Or, more accurately, dangerous friends.

Castiel did _not_ want to know then, and he was certain he did _not_ want to know now.

Heaven help them, they probably had syphilis and God knew what else!

Putting it from his mind, as there was little he could do about their pollution, he climbed into the cab his footman had hailed and told the driver his club’s address. Although he had a very exclusive place at White’s that he had inherited with his family name, Castiel preferred to attend the more informal Brook’s, where Balthazar liked to gamble his estate away.

As he expected when he arrived in the smoke-filled rooms, Balthazar was sitting at a game of hazard, and, if his swearing was any indication, losing. “Blast it all! Do you plan to rob me blind, you old bastard! Are you a magician or some such? Did you bespell the dice?!”

“You are being ridiculous.”

Balthazar whirled and his anger dissipated at viewing Castiel’s countenance. “Oh, Castiel! Long time, my friend! Whatever dragged you off that musty farm of yours?”

The banker called final bets as the next caster took Balthazar’s spot at the table. Balthazar huffed, disgruntled, but dragged Castiel along to the library.

“Well, now, Castiel, my dear Lord Allen, what is your pleasure?” Balthazar poured himself a brandy from a crystal decanter and poured a second tumbler for Castiel. “I believe the waiters will be by in moments for your desire.”

This would’ve been innocent had Balthazar not accompanied it with a lewd wink.

“The brady will do fine for now. I have just come from dining with my sisters.” He sank gratefully into one of the red leather settees. “Heaven knows they are undoubtedly attempting to send me to debtor’s prison with their endless purchasing of geegaws and whatever else.”

Balthazar laughed. He was a handsome man, generally, with intelligent gray-blue eyes, blond hair he kept in a titus-style, brushed forward as was popular. He was also blessed with handsome sideburns and a coloring that did very well in fawn and brown colors of cloth. Always a dandy, with an occasional slip into a fop, today he wore a high-collared shirt with a dark cravat, a buff waistcoat, and a double-breasted brown coat with covered buttons.

“You appear as dapper as always,” Castiel commented as he took the glass. “How far into debt with your tailor are you now?”

Balthazar scoffed. “Always the puritan! I actually try to settle my accounts with my tailor, seeing as I depend on him to keep me in fashion.” He sipped his brandy. “So then, your sisters bring you to town?”

“You see straight to it,” Castiel returned with a sigh. “My youngest sister, Anna, is to be presented this Season. I find it all rather dreary.”

“Dreary is that farmstead you prefer to hide at,” Balthazar chuckled as he settled into a chair across from Castiel. “You took so many honors at Eton, yet you chose to be a farmer. I can scarcely fathom it.”

“There’s honest money and honest work in farming,” Castiel said primly. “I can scarcely fathom why you are here nigh every day, trying to lose your fortune.”

Balthazar waved the comment away. “Boredom, old man. I enjoy risks.”

Castiel nodded and they slowly moved to other topics, imbibing in more beverages, and revisiting old memories.

They were both in near tears, laughing over a tom cat that Balthazar and Theo had trapped in Dame Mills’ root cellar, which had escaped by forcibly pushing itself under her skirt and scrabbling between her legs, frightening the woman into screaming like a banshee.

“Oh those were the days,” Balthazar snorted through his laughter.

“Which days are those, Lord Newton?”

Balthazar immediately calmed himself and sat up. “Childhood days. You remember, Sir Boyle? Innocent pranks and the like?”

Castiel looked at the two men who were just outside of hovering over them. One was a very tall, lantern-jawed gentleman of light-brown good looks and deep, thoughtful green eyes a shade off verdigris; the other was somewhat shorter, with blond hair and disdainful blue eyes that were staring at Balthazar with distaste.

Sighing, Balthazar stood up, causing Castiel to also stand, and introduced the two men. “Lord Allen, may I introduce to you Lord Eden, Earl of Pennycot, and Sir Bartholomew Boyle. They are… occasional gambling companions.” He motioned to Castiel. “This is his Grace, Lord Allen, Duke of Milton.”

Everyone bowed and, while Balthazar and Castiel retook their seats, Sir Boyle motioned a waiter to bring another chair to the small table, while Lord Eden took a place on the same settee as Castiel.

“I hope you don’t mind our intruding,” Eden said with a small grimace. His legs were too long and he had to stretch them out before him to be comfortable. “We had heard the mysterious Duke of Milton was making the rounds this Season and wanted to get ahead of the madding crowds to become acquainted.”

Castiel squinted, unsure what was meant, but replied, “Certainly. I have only come as I have a younger sister to wed off, then I shall retire back to the country where the air is clean.”

Sir Boyle looked incredulous and asked, “But surely you mean to find a wife yourself? Rumor has it you are going on thirty, Your Grace! That must be a priority!”

Castiel gave him an unimpressed look and responded, “I hear it is proper for a man to wed at forty in order to ensure he has sown all his wild oats.”

The men exchanged glances, and it was one of the times his rank as nobility worked to his advantage, as they could not dare say more without courting disaster.

As it was, however, both Boyle and Eden had attended Harrow, which brought about some good-natured joking about being rivals. But things soon moved to conversations about the Season and the latest gossip.

“Yes, I hear there is a new and fashionable physician in town. The Prince Regent has even approved of him, but he refused to be privately retained.”

“Is he really that good?” Balthazar wondered.

“Well, he received his degree quickly in Glasgow, Anderson’s I believe.”

“Is that good?” Balthazar asked, looking somewhat perplexed. “You know I shun anything to do with studies. If my other option had not been as a light bob, I would have avoided Cambridge as well.”

“You would have never survived in the military,” Castiel grinned into his glass.

Relief coloring his face, Balthazar replied huffily, “No I would not have. Regardless, is Glasgow a good medical school for all this hubbub?”

“It is an excellent school,” Boyle answered, rolling his brandy in his tumbler, “He apparently passed several exams easily and completed the surgeon’s, apothecary, and physician aspects effortlessly.”

“Interesting and rare.” Castiel thought the man would undoubtedly be interesting to speak to, at the least. “How did the Prince Regent come across him?”

Eden shifted uncomfortably and said, “As you must know, the Prince Regent suffers from…stomach pains. He had the newest, most effective physician to come to his side.”

Boyle chuckled. “As you are imagining, he hardly took the advice to stop eating such heavy meals very well, but he did prescribe an infusion that the Prince Regent has raved about.”

“Then he is cured?”

Boyle smirked. “Hardly, but it apparently soothes his innards, and that is all that matters, is it not?”

“It is an improvement, I have no doubt, and a blessing.” Castiel checked his pocket watch and scowled at it. It was much later than he had thought. “I fear I must be going. I am to take my sisters to the theatre this evening.”

“The new Theater Royale is not scheduled to open until October. Are you going to Lyceum, then?”

Castiel nodded with a huff. “My youngest sister adores theatre and dramas. She is a young woman, so the day is not the same without her fainting over the latest poet. I believe she has recently discovered Lord Byron, which I cannot wholly approve.”

“But the man can write a canto,” Balthazar rejoined.

Castiel pressed his lips together and tartly said, “Indeed. Well, either way, I must go prepare. God help me if I am late. Neither lady would forgive me.”

Balthazar, Boyle, and Eden smiled.

“Then, Your Grace, if I might, we are still in early days before the official Season. May I send around an invitation for an evening of light supper, games, and perhaps some dancing?” Asked Sir Boyle.

Castiel nodded as he stood. “Of course. I will also mention it to my sister, Mrs. Johnson. Now, if you will excuse me.” He bowed and the other three stood and bowed back.

* * *

The short ride from St. James’s Street back to Mayfair allowed him to think, even as they passed so many people and shops. He did like a good shop, even if he rarely ventured out. Or, perhaps, it was because _Dean_ had loved a good shop, his enthusiasm over the silliest things simply entrancing to someone like Castiel, who had a limited attachment to baubles and material goods.

When they arrived and Castiel paid the driver, the townhouse was lit from top to bottom. Frowning, he walked in and found the servants running about and could hear Anna shrilly begging for something “less dowdy.”

He was certain he didn’t want to know.

He stopped a maid as she tried to rush by with a pitcher of water, and asked for some warm water to be brought upstairs so he could wash. She curtsied and nodded, her face red for some reason, and ran away to deliver the pitcher.

Later, as he washed the dust of the day off, even from his rooms he could hear Anna screeching about her hair and Hannah getting fed up and screaming back.

He sighed.

It was going to be a long evening.

* * *

If Castiel had known that Sir Bartholomew Boyd had informed people that the “reclusive Duke of Milton” was attending his soiree, he would have declined. As it was, Mrs. Hannah Carolyn Allen Johnson had received the invitation with some reservations, but bowed to her brother’s whim, as he rarely asked her for anything.

For Anna, it was a chance to wear a new gown she had purchased on their last shopping bout, so she didn’t care what it was for, but was rather relieved when Castiel mentioned dancing might be involved.

They finally alighted into the carriage Castiel kept for such evenings, as the weather was cooling off significantly and Anna was susceptible to the cold. He looked her over, her pelisse was military style in a leaf green and lovely with darker green trim. He knew her new gown was exquisite in white muslin with green trim that made her hazel eyes glow green, as both his sisters had informed him repeatedly. Regardless, he felt certain she would make a splash (and hopefully a good match) that would allow him to leave her in Hannah’s care and return to Milton Manor.

As Sir Boyle lived some ways off, all the way at Bedford Square, he listened to his sisters’ chatter. Well, mostly Anna, as Hannah was often as reserved as he was and more comfortable in silence. Castiel paused to wonder where Dean was and how he was doing? He deeply missed his friend and, really, first love.

 _Only love_ , said a voice in his head, but he ignored it. How far had Dean wandered? Turkestan? Persia? The Caspian Sea? Had he headed north into China and Russia?

Last he had heard, Dean had been in India, making his way to China with Dr. Singer in tow, but he had not heard anything in almost seven years.

“Castiel, we have arrived.”

Blinking, Castiel found Hannah staring at him with some concern, but Anna was bubbling with enthusiasm for an evening where she could meet people.

The house of Sir Boyle was handsome: beautifully painted in peacock blues and greens, white accents in style with the times, and many servants helping guests to the setting room, while they waited for the rest of the visitors to arrive.

“Ah! Duke Milton! I was so happy to receive your confirmation!” Sir Boyle was emulating Beau Brummel, it seemed, in tight dark-shaded clothing and an elaborate cravat that looked like a waterfall. He bowed to Castiel, and then waited as Castiel indicated his sisters.

“Sir Bartholomew Boyle, this is my sister, Mrs. Hannah Johnson, and my youngest sister, Miss Anna Allen.” They both curtsied, and Boyle bowed again.

“Oh my, Miss Allen, you shall certainly light up the Season for us!”

Anna blushed and smiled coyly. “La, Sir! You are too kind.”

Castiel exchanged a look with Hannah, questioning the flirtatiousness of Anna. Hannah looked extremely put upon and sighed faintly.

“Indeed, Sir Boyle,” she interrupted, reaching for his arm, “I wonder if you would introduce us to the others. This is my sister’s first social engagement here in London and she is very excited.”

 _Excitable_ , is what Castiel heard, and he chuckled into his fist as he turned to find some brandy somewhere. He was headed towards the back of the room when he heard an eerily familiar laugh and swiveled to see who it was.

A tall man in a deep-brown suit of clothes was standing with his back to Castiel. Next to him was a shorter man in emerald-green clothing, except for his golden yellow turban that looked impressive next to his swarthy skin. He looked Indian, really, not that he particularly cared, but the light brown hair and the bowed legs of the other gentleman were riveting his attention.

“Is that how you convinced the Shah’s youngest son to come adventuring with you, Doctor?”

“Well, the Shah was definitely surprised to have me speak up on Salabat’s behalf, but I know what it is to want to be a doctor and not being allowed to.”

The man those two were speaking to seemed to notice Castiel’s stare, and he was fortunate that it was an acquaintance of his, Mr. Marvin Armstrong, whose ambitious pen name was “Metatron.”

“Your Grace! I did not see you there! It’s been a long time since we have spoken!” Mr. Armstrong pushed between the two men to greet Castiel, and the one he called “Doctor” turned to look at him.

Blue eyes met peridot green and Castiel felt faint for the first time in his life. Mr. Armstrong, unaware of Castiel’s distress, introduced the two men as doctors, and said, “This is Doctor Dean Winchester. He has apparently just returned to England after a long time abroad. This is his companion, Doctor Salabat Jung.”

Dean was smiling softly at him. He was taller, broader, tanner, and he had more freckles, but it was definitely him. “Your Grace,” he said, his voice deeper and very masculine as he deeply bowed, “It’s been a long time. I was planning to come visit you tomorrow, if I could...?”

Castiel’s throat was dry and he swallowed hard to get rid of the blockage in his throat, a choked back, “Dean!” But he managed to keep himself together, bow back and mutter, “But of course, Dr. Winchester. I look forward to that.” He nodded to the other man, the Dr. Salabut Jung, Mr. Armstrong had said, and close up Castiel could see he was a handsome man of an age with Dean. Intelligent brown eyes studied him from under strong eyebrows, and his nose was prominent but regal looking over his fine black beard. The man bowed slightly, his hand against his heart and his arm close to his chest. Castiel bowed back slightly in recognition and turned his attention back to Mr. Armstrong. 

"Yes, the Doctors have been kind enough to share some of their tales with me, and I must say I fear they are exaggerating for suspense!"

Dean feigned looking hurt, and said, "Mr. Armstrong, you wound me! I tell you we barely escaped an elephant stampede outside Bagdad while traveling north, and you accuse me of embellishment! I assure you I am no wordsmith such as yourself."

Mr. Armstrong puffed up with a measure of pride at his skills being mentioned and began to discuss his own tales of misadventure with publishing. Castiel merely stared at Dean with what he was sure was poorly disguised shock, aware that Dr. Jung's shrewd gaze darted between he and Dean while appearing to listen to Mr. Armstrong.

Castiel was failing to fathom how Dean had arrived. When had he arrived? Why had he not written to him? Were the still friends, much less anything else? A sense of nausea churned in his belly as he realized he had no answer and no means to drag Dean away and demand answers. He was blindsided and hated it.

As he struggled to cope, Dean smiled that sparkling smile that Castiel had missed so desperately, and Castiel licked his lips and stuttered over Mr. Armstrong's monologue about researching poesy, “I… yes, I am being called by my sisters. Please excuse me.”

He bowed again to the men and made his escape on shaking legs, highly aware of the twin gazes of peridot green and sloe-eyed brown following him as he fled.

But even as he ran, the questions would not stop. _Why was Dean **here**? Who was that with him?_ They whirled restlessly in his head, and he wondered and worried why Dean had not come to see him first or at least written that he was back on England's shores?

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of cards and a cold late supper. There was no dancing as many people got caught up in the roulette game that Boyle had purchased in Paris. It was only penny-ante play, but it was incredibly fun.

Dr. Winchester– _Dean–_ stayed away from Castiel the rest of the evening, and even while he listlessly played whist for pence, his eye was on the way Dean and his friend leaned into each to whisper, laughing at jokes between them. Once Castiel was caught by a dark eye knowingly watching him back, and he felt himself pale and drop his hand on the table, folding.

By midnight, he had had enough, and it was no time to make a scene, as Dean was popular, charming to gentlemen and ladies alike with his tales of adventure when he wasn’t playing a game. He spoke fondly of elephants and camels, of seeing crocodiles and monkeys. He spoke of mountains and dry terrain with just the remains of giant cities left behind in time. Ladies were enthralled, Castiel had no doubt, with the muscular legs and the broadness of shoulder shown off by Dean’s tailor. It was aggravating.

As such, he managed to gather his sisters up and force them home, warning both of them with a look not to create a scene. He was in foul temper and listening to Anna whinge over the unfairness of life would send him over the edge, he thought sourly. It was not to be bourne, such distance between them! They had once shared everything, and now they shared nothing at all.

* * *

His foul temper followed him into the next morning, where he declined taking a ride in Hyde Park to socialize and sent his sisters off on a round of morning calls, while he took care of business that awaited him in his private study.

Still, the charm Dean had exuded while speaking was–for lack of a better phrase–setting his teeth on edge. Jealous edge.

It was confounding, embarrassing, and–above all–humbling that he could not separate his desire to possess Dean wholly again, and the strict social customs that forbade men from dallying with other men. Now that he was older, he realized ‘mollies’ were men who dressed as women, and that St. Paul’s Cathedral was one of the places sodomites and catamites went to consort. He pitied them as much as he wanted the courage to walk among them, but he was no actor on stage or a bartend. Dallying among them would risk his family name and ruin his sisters' futures.

Even as he had aged and realized he was drawn to men, not particularly to women, it had not made the covetous feeling over Dean dissipate. In fact, he was aware his possessiveness was bound in that last week of Dean’s visit, when their curiosities drove them to investigate their mutual pleasures.

Sighing heavily, Castiel eyed his breakfast of cheese toast, seed cake, marmalade, and hot chocolate, picking up the cup and sipping the now-lukewarm beverage as he thought back. 

 

 

> _It was Dean who had moved first. Castiel was sure of it. He would have never had the courage to touch him._
> 
> _That first night that Dean had moved in close and kissed Castiel hesitantly was a revelation. There was something erotic about being in bed with Dean while being kissed. Something that made him **want**. He wasn’t sure what. _
> 
> _When Castiel didn’t object, but in fact pulled Dean closer, they began to experiment a bit, hands staying above the soft nightshirts but still feeling the press of flesh beneath it,_ between _them. That night, they did nothing but kiss and touch each other through their nightshirts–the hot dampness of Dean’s lower back through the linen, the sharp taste of his jaw–and that was exciting enough with the panted breaths they shared. They rutted against each other with only twin thin linen nightshirts separating them, and feeling_ Dean _–warm and demanding against him_ – _was something Castiel had never imagined, but it was now something he would never forget._
> 
> _He came, gasping Dean’s name, and Dean followed him. They fell asleep, exhausted with their first sexual experience, grateful it had been with each other. Castiel didn’t think Dean heard him whisper, “I love you,” into his sweaty crown as he fell into sleep._

The memory had Castiel shivering, his member hardening under his nightshirt and dressing gown. He paused in his eating to breathe deeply and try to dispel the cobwebs of so many years ago. But Dean would be here in his house, now. Alone. The two of them.

He could not help but feel the anticipation of what might come or, possibly, the dread of what might not come. He was no boy of sixteen anymore. He was a Duke and he represented the Realm. No matter if he was still more interested in the male form than the female, he refused to indulge himself. He doubted he would be hanged like so many others, but the cost would be immense, regardless. The arrests in Warrington and the prosecution of five of those men for “committing that horrid, detestable, and abominable crime called buggery” in 1806 were enough to make most men wary.

 _Not enough_ , he supposed, finishing his toast and rubbing at his forehead, if the arrest of another 20 men for “activities” at Vere Street two years back were any indication. These were not the best times to prefer men.

But…but…

 _Dean_.

Castiel thought about the now-adult eyes he had gazed on at the card party, the tiny wrinkles at the edges of Dean’s eyes, the long, dark eyelashes that framed those peridot eyes, those still pink and plump lips that he had tasted before…

It was, really, exceeding difficult not to worship the man. It was not at all fair.

Not fair that in more than fourteen years, he’d not seen anyone as beautiful as Dean Winchester.

Sighing, he got back into bed, knowing he had time until morning calls, especially with the ladies gone. He laid back and thought about that last day and night he had had with Dean. 

> _Dean had not wanted to leave the house, not even leave the room. Castiel acquiesced because it was such a small thing. And he wanted time alone with Dean, time to investigate this_ experience _with him. Time for his love before he was gone from him, most likely for good._
> 
> _So he had raided the larder for meat pies and fruit. He had pinched a pitcher of small beer for them to share. And he had found a bucket of water for them to wash in. When he returned to the room, Dean had straightened the bed and generally cleaned up, but it was the shy smile that burned into Castiel’s soul. It was tender and hopeful, affectionate and stunning._
> 
> _“Hey, Cas.” He looked bashfully at his hands, his lashes fluttering against his reddened cheeks. He was in a clean nightshirt, his ankles and feet bare, the notch of his collarbone visible, and Castiel wondered if it was possible to ever love anyone else? Would anyone else look like an angel in the slanted light of half-covered window?_
> 
> _They spent the rest of the day kissing, touching, and loving each other, whispering secrets and making promises they knew they might never keep. A full day and night just for them, and when morning came, Dean left._
> 
> _And Castiel was left with the shards of his heart fallen at his feet._

There was a knock at the door that pulled Castiel from his memories. He bade them enter as he considered his next move, and it also gave him the chance to try and hide his erection.

All these years with only those memories of love and sex, it was no wonder it took so little to stimulate him. Add that Dean would soon be in person, standing before him, and he was not surprised that his libido finally shook itself awake, like a dog rising from a night’s rest.

“Your Grace,” came the voice as the door creaked open, “You requested that someone wake you around this time?”

Castiel coughed. “Yes, thank you, Devin. I will be down shortly.”

The butler paused to ask, “Shall Your Grace require assistance dressing this morning?”

Castiel chuckled as he slipped out of bed. “You mean, should you summon Ajay? I have no doubt he is shining shoes and boots as we speak. Certainly. I could use some help this morn.”

Devin bowed and exited the room, while Castiel considered his partial erection with annoyance. Ignoring it, he bathed in the cold water from his pitcher, shivering as he completed his ablutions. He was just tying his dressing gown and preparing to tackle his wardrobe, when Ajay knocked and entered.

“Your Grace! I was surprised you required my help this morning!” Ajay was a handsome man, close in age to Castiel. He had fine dark eyes and hair, while tall and lanky in limb. Although attractive, Castiel had never paid him notice, and he pondered if this was to be a continued issue on his part, now that his libido had shaken off its daze.

“Yes, Ajay, I realize I generally don’t call for you in the mornings, preferring to dress myself, but I think I should like a bit of assistance and a shave.”

Ajay bowed. “Of course, Your Grace. Let me ring for hot water and prepare your clothes.”

Castiel nodded absently and picked through his cravats. He selected a deep blue one and handed to Ajay. “Work around this, my man.”

Ajay arched a brow slightly in surprise but did as he was bidden: a gray shirt with blue undertones, a black brocade waistcoat with blue burnished roses, and deep gray trousers. As Castiel planned to stay in his study, he refused the coat and let Ajay shave him and fix his hair.

“You look dashing, Your Grace,” Ajay said cautiously, “More so than usual.”

Castiel hummed and ran his palm over his face, enjoying how smooth his jaws were. “Do you think? I just felt like getting a bit more cleaned up than my habitual.”

“Indeed, Your Grace.” He bowed slightly. “Is there anything else with which I can be of service?”

Smiling at him, Castiel shook his head. “No, thank you, Ajay. I understand it must be frustrating for you that I primarily ask you to take care of my clothing and footwear, but I am no fop nor a dandy. I work the fields, as you know, and that is no place for the Waterfall.”

Ajay smiled gently, his eyes lowered. “Yes, Your Grace. I do remember.”

“Good man.” He pulled a half a guinea out and tossed it to the man. “I hope you and the staff can enjoy a nicer pudding tonight.”

Staring at the money, Ajay swallowed hard and nodded. “Yes, Your Grace. This is very generous of you.”

“You all keep me fed, clothed, and housed. How can I not appreciate that when it is as much work as tilling a field or minding animals?”

“As you say, Your Grace.” He bowed again, and reached out to collect the tray with Castiel’s leftovers. “By your leave?”

“Of course, and thank you.”

Alone again, Castiel ruined his valet’s styling by running an agitated hand through his hair, cursing as his hand came back waxy and his hair a riotous mess. “God bones!”

Sighing, he tried to fix his hair but gave up when it refused to cooperate. Instead, he made his way to his study where a pile of correspondence from Barbados and Antigua was waiting. Eyeing the pile, he hoped Dean would arrive soon and rescue him from the tedium of management.

* * *

Castiel was in the midst of the complicated issues regarding the Allen’s sugar plantations’ production, the trade embargoes, the declaration of war from the ‘United States,’ and the sheer number of pirates on the trade routes, when Dean's calling card was brought in by Devin.His irritation at the numerous problems that revolved around the sugar and tobacco plantations his Grandfather and Father had cultivated was edging towards irate. He was starting to suspect he was simply going to have to inspect the premises himself.

As such, when Devin announced Dean, his relief was palatable and his smile wide and thankful. If he had to stare at yet another ledger, he was going to attempt to crack his skull on the bookshelves around him. Or something similar. He was now rescued from that fate, and his foul mood lifted upon knowing his old friend was there to see him.

“Well, bring him in! I am eager to see him!”

Devin bowed, exited, and returned with an amused Dean following him. “Your Grace, Dr. Dean Winchester to see you.”

Jumping up from his seat, Castiel stretched out his arms and gathered Dean in a tight hug. “Dean! I am so pleased to see you! You cannot imagine.”

Dean awkwardly hugged him back, and Devin showed himself out. “Hi, Cas,” he said with a broad smile, leaning back and grasping Castiel's shoulders warmly. “It’s good to see you too.”

“Come, come, have a seat! I demand to hear everything!” He pulled Dean over to the seat near his desk and took the seat next to him. “I would move us to the drawing room, but I fear my sisters bumbling in on us. They will not bother us here.”

Dean laughed, his beautiful smile coming out like from behind a cloud, and sat where directed. “It’s so odd I have never met your sisters before last evening.”

Rolling his eyes, Castiel responded, “Admit it: it was nothing to rave on about. They are air-headed, as are most women of this era. I have met very few women with the wit and education to carry themselves well, instead of as dressed-up dolls with fluttering fans and eyelashes.”

“I can see you’re not a bit cynical,” Dean chuckled as Devin returned with tea, placed it on a table, and left them. “That’s a relief. I was worried how the years might have changed you.”

Castiel dragged his gaze over the man in front of him. Although Dean was dressed plainly, his clothes were of obviously good materials that had lasted a long time. The dark green coat was a tad faded at the elbows and cuffs, his cravat very simply knotted, and his Hessians looked rather worn in, but he still cut a fine figure of a man. Castiel licked his lips and murmured, “I was more concerned about your transformation after traveling the Orient.”

Dean smirked. “It was an adventure and I learned quite a bit, as their medicine is much different than ours, even with the influx of Western Medicine. We traveled from Dalian, Manchuria, to Peking, and it was beautiful there!” His green eyes gleamed with excitement to tell his story, and Cas poured out tea as they talked. "I had the honor to see so many places. Each place rich with history and stories, their medicine similar in many ways, but still so different from our own!"

He heard about Dean’s adventures in India and China. That he and Bobby had taken the old trading routes to see parts of Russia and Persia. He laughed boldly, retelling his escapades on camels, llamas, and even mules. That the land was lovely, the people kind, and the food very different.

“I had to learn so much, from customs to languages,” Dean mused, nibbling on the seed cake and scones offered up by the kitchen, “I tried to write you, but there soon came a place where there was no real mail system and not a city for miles.”

Shame suffused Castiel as he realized he had not only doubted Dean, he had stopped writing himself. “Dean…I–”

Dean waved him off. “Don’t concern yourself, Cas. Honestly, you had not heard from me in so long, I suspect you thought I was dead.”

He managed to shake his head, his throat tight. “Never,” he replied, “I never did.”

And Castiel felt faint as Dean bestowed that happy, careless grin on him.

* * *

It was closing on two o’clock when the old friends paused in their storytelling, Castiel’s mostly about his agricultural changes at the Manor and Dean regarding his time away, including his "official" medical schooling in Glasgow. He _had_ _been_ the physician to give the Prince Regent some relief from indigestion. 

"But really," Dean said with a shrug, "he needs to get up and exercise, to stop eating so much, and consume more tea and less port."

Castiel huffed a laugh, and Dean chuckled and nodded. "Yes, I know, Cas. As likely as a fish waltzing on a sandbar! But I can hope he changes his ways."

"Unlikely as that waltzing fish!" Castiel noted the time and asked, “Dean, would you care to share dinner with me? I believe my sisters will be having it with a friend of theirs, a Lady Bradbury, and I would enjoy your company.”

Dean smiled and shook his head, rising from his seat. “Thank you for the invitation, but I fear I must depart. I promised Salabat that I would come home for dinner.”

For some reason, the words sat sourly in Castiel’s gullet, and he swallowed hard to try and dislodge the surprising anger that knotted itself there. “I…see.”

Dean–brushing his trousers–missed the expression on Castiel’s face, and bumbled on. “Salabat is making curry for us, and I do love a good curry! And he makes the naan bread too, which I asked him how did a _prince_ learn such things, and he merely winked at me!”

“How wonderful for you.” He couldn’t help it, the cold tone of his voice. His anger burned cold and calculating, even as he recognized it as jealousy. Someone _else_ had Dean’s attention. Someone _else_ was waiting for Dean at _home_. He was utterly unprepared for such possessiveness to accost his good sense and manners. After so many years, why would he feel that _want_ so deeply and greedily?

Green eyes snapped over to him at the cold response, a furrow between Dean’s brows. “You have something you want to say?”

His innards continued to twist with covetous rage, but he held himself together enough to shake his head minutely and glare coldly. “Not a thing. If you have someone to go _home_ to, an old friend–no, an old _lover_ like me must not interfere.”

Dean glared back, his face paling at the insinuation. “Is that what you think?”

Castiel tilted his chin up, his emotions in disarray and hating it. He had not felt anything remotely like this since Dean had walked out of his life the _second_ time. “I don’t know what to think, except you ought to return to your curry.”

A snarl ripped out of Dean and he shoved his way into Castiel’s space, hovering over his seat, hands gripping the arms of the chair with white knuckles. “How dare you even _think_ that of me! That you are just a mere 'old lover' and mean nothing to me!"

Coldly, Castiel sniped, “I do not know what you're implying, Dean. You said it yourself, you had Salabat and a homemade curry waiting. Heaven knows I do not want to come between you and a meal.”

“Damn it, Cas,” Dean growled, and he bent further down to get in Castiel’s face. “That’s not what you’re _implying_ with your tone.”

“You are going to be late,” Castiel replied calmly, although having Dean’s face so close to his was causing his heart to beat absurdly quick. He could feel Dean’s hot breaths exit his beautiful mouth and unfurl against his own. His lips tingled with how close they were, memories dredged up of how Dean once tasted, and it took most of his power to not surge up and taste him again.

“Indeed,” Dean whispered, gaze flicking to Castiel’s mouth. “But perhaps he can wait…”

Half his life had passed without the touch of another on him, haunted by a boyhood love, and now, here was the man, his lips pressed to his, and Castiel _wanted_. He _wanted_ like he had at sixteen, although then he hadn’t known _what_ it was he wanted. He hadn't known how deeply and desperately he _could_ want!

The taste of tea and sweetness and _Dean_. Oh, kissing him now was different! It was _better_! The light scruff from his jaw was marvelous and he reveled in the headiness of emotion, touch, and desire.

There was a scrabbling as fingers sought purchase, and a low moaning that Castiel realized had come from him.

“Cas, Cas, Cas, _Cas_ …” Dean chanted against his mouth, his tongue begging entrance, licking against Castiel's bottom lip demandingly, and Castiel was helpless against it. “I missed you so much.”

Dean pushed forward again and was nearly in Castiel’s lap when Castiel’s teacup tumbled to the floor, knocked over by an errant elbow, only to shatter loudly against the wood floor.

Both men gasped in surprise, and Dean leaped back, his mouth reddened and his cheeks pinked. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, bowing. “Please excuse me.”

Castiel gaped at his back as Dean fled. _What was that? Why had he run?_

* * *

Supper that night was light, as Castiel was not hungry and his sisters had returned after a long day of socializing and mingling.

“…and Lady Bradbury said that we simply must come to her party tomorrow evening!”

Castiel grunted, his mood again soured by one Dean Winchester.

“Castiel! Are you even attending me?”

He blinked and stared at Hannah for a moment, noting she looked peeved with him and was just moments from putting her hands on her hips to scold him like a child.

“Yes, you said you were invited to Lady Bradbury’s,” he repeated dutifully as he cut into his pigeon pie.

“Brother, dear, I said _we_ were invited,” she corrected him impatiently.

“I have no interest in going,” Castiel countered, waving his fork. “And I also have a great deal of work to complete regarding the estates in the West Indies.”

“How tedious,” Anna murmured, picking at her food. “Surely it can wait one evening?”

Sighing heavily, Castiel replied, “My dear Anna, if you enjoy having funds to purchase all that finery, you will indulge my need to focus on work. I have no intention of bogging you down with the details, but let me assure you, it brings me no joy either.” He stabbed a pigeon leg in the pie. “You and Hannah may attend. I’m sure it is mostly young ladies and gallants playing whist or some such.”

“How are you my brother,” Anna muttered, putting down her cutlery and dabbing her mouth with her napkin. “Please excuse me.”

Castiel ignored Hannah’s glare at him and waved Anna off. “Have fun tomorrow,” he called, and went back to his meal.

* * *

The thing about Anna, Castiel always thought, was she was careless and overstuffed with youthful willfulness. That this was coupled with a rather delicate constitution was unfortunate for the young lady, as she often caught cold over the smallest thing.

So, it stood to reason that, when Lady Bradbury called for a game of Hide and Seek in the topiary garden, although it was cold out and it had rained earlier that day, Anna would refuse to stay indoors and, indeed, fall ill.

The issue became more obvious a day or so later, with a small fit of coughing at breakfast that made Hannah fuss over the adolescent. Anna, tired of being treated as an invalid, leaped up and flounced out of the room, leaving Hannah and Castiel to share worried looks.

Anna had weak lungs and a coughing fit was bad news for someone of her constitution.

That late afternoon, she didn’t come down for dinner, although Hannah made sure there were some soups available for her. Sighing heavily, Hannah arranged to send up a maid with a tray and hoped the girl would eat it.

Devin reported that Anna had nibbled at it and sent the rest down.

“Castiel, this cannot end well,” Hannah worried, “If she refuses to eat, she will definitely fall ill. I cannot think of her perishing of influenza like our parents!”

Castiel sighed. “She’s still young, Hannah. Surely her constitution will fight it off.”

Hannah scowled fiercely, her blue eyes dark. “I suppose we shall see tomorrow. I’ll send up a bit of porridge for supper and some tea. Hopefully, she will force that down.”

“Keep me informed,” Castiel murmured, patting his sister on the back as he exited the room and fled to the study. The issue with his overseer was becoming maddeningly complicated, as the man was extremely old fashioned, having been posted under Castiel’s father. Dismissing him was not a viable option without a replacement, or without a reliable review of the property to see what had and had not been done in the Allen name.

The complicated nature of the plantation–what with Castiel demanding Tom Masters free the slaves and allow them to work for pay if they wanted–was keeping Castiel awake at night.

That and the kiss he had shared with Dean.

Nevertheless, he was focusing sharply on the conundrum in Antigua to forget about the enigma that was Dean Winchester.

The beautiful, difficult, _cheating_ Dean, who had kissed him soundly, but still went home to… to _Salabutt_!

Castiel scowled at his letter, ink drops falling onto the paper from where he white-knuckled his pen, nearly snapping the ivory holder. He noted the droplets had fallen over his script, and he blew out an irritated sigh that Dean could disrupt his thoughts so easily.

He fished out a clean sheet of paper to begin the letter over, firmly casting Dr. Dean Winchester from his mind.

* * *

The next day proved Anna wrong in that she woke terribly ill.

A cough wracked her body and she thrashed in feverish delirium. Hannah was forced to stay out by Castiel’s order, refusing to have both his sisters on death’s bed due to illness. He was so distraught by Anna’s illness, he immediately sent Hannah back to her husband’s house. “I will send for you when she is recovered.”

“I understand.” Hannah sniffled delicately into her handkerchief, her eyes red from crying. “Please, Castiel, make sure she gets well. She’s too young to follow Mother and Father!”

Castiel reassured her and sent her off, wondering what to do now?

“Sir,” said Mrs. Grange, his housekeeper, quietly, “Perhaps a physician to examine her…?”

He turned to look at the small woman who had control of his house. Mrs. Grange was in her middling years, and, even if her light-brown hair had turned white at the temples, her eyes were an icy blue that brooked no insolence. “A physician?”

She nodded and hesitantly said, “Perhaps that young doctor who visited before, Your Grace? He’s well-known to be an extraordinary physician. Why, he’s even serviced the Prince Regent!”

Castiel scowled. He hadn’t known that Dean had been acquiring a reputation. “From whom have you heard about Dr. Winchester?”

Mrs. Grange ducked her head and quietly said, “He and his companion not only serve the upper classes, but also have been going into Whitechapel and even the Wapping docks to see people and see if they could be cured.”

“That’s rather unheard of for a physician,” Castiel murmured. Most physicians were expensive and had pretensions to the gentry, leaving the poorer factions with surgeons and apothecaries to help them. Physicians were not called to get their hands dirty touching actual corpses for their medical training, which is why there was that added level of snobbery. They were meant to serve the upper classes with clean hands and lessons from a board.

“Dr. Winchester apparently has also had training as a surgeon and apothecary,” she added, brushing down the front of her gown in a nervous gesture, “which allows him to serve those in need.”

“That does sound like him,” Castiel hummed. “Very well, please send a footman to fetch him and his kit. If his…” He paused, forcing the words out, “ _companion_ chooses to accompany him, make arrangements.”

Mrs. Grange curtsied and left him to stand in the hall.

From upstairs, Anna’s coughing could be heard, wet and painful. Castiel cast his gaze upwards and prayed it was nothing too serious.

Surely God would not take Anna when he just got Dean back in his life?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Prince Regent George IV** : When George III lost his marbles, his son, George IV, stepped in as regent. Sadly, he was a bit of a wastrel in that he spent a fortune in food, booze, and fun. He also gained a lot of weight (somewhere around 280lbs) and was mocked for it. He ate massive amounts of (heavy) food, laudanum, and alcohol, which caused him to suffer from gout and indigestion.
> 
>  **Whitechapel and Wapping** : We'd call them slums or very poor neighborhoods, really.
> 
> Seriously, ask me if you have any questions about the fic. God knows there's a lot of detail shoved together.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get complicated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A tad late! Sorry!! Hope everyone had a happy New Year!! 
> 
> One more chapter after this!

The clock struck two and there was yet no sign of Dean.

Castiel reluctantly sat down to dinner, eating lightly as his stomach was decidedly nervous. He had not seen Dean since their kiss, and nothing he had done before to summon the man had worked. Dean routinely returned notes of apology, stating he was occupied with this or that patient of the moment, and he currently lacked free time for social engagements.

It was infuriating. How dare Dean kiss him like that and then not come back!

Vexed, Castiel sliced spitefully into his roast beef, ignoring the mackerel, and taking an extra Yorkshire pudding. He smothered the roast beef with wow-wow sauce, and swallowed down his port quickly to ease his nerves, nibbling on his spinach.

When Devin appeared with the second course (it was jugged hare; he hated jugged hare, even if Hannah loved it), he refused and–instead–took the bottle of wine that had been provided and returned to his study.

When the clock struck four and there was finally a knock at his study's door. Deep in the books for a tobacco plantation in the Colonies, he brusquely called, “Enter!”

Devin pushed open the door to step in and bowed, handing him a calling card. “Your Grace, Dr. Dean Winchester is here upon your request.”

“Ah, yes. Send him in!”

It occurred to Castiel that perhaps it was not the best of ideas to entertain Dean while in his cups. Certainly, a bottle of wine was technically not considered over imbibing–Balthazar drank more than that at a sitting–but for Castiel, it was odd behavior as he was more prone to drink tea, chocolate, or even coffee than wine. Possibly even brandy, which he enjoyed in moderation.

As such, it surprised him somewhat that, when he stood to greet Dean, he staggered a tad and that the room spun around him.

Dean, in the meantime, strode confidently into the room, although it was obvious he was on his guard. His eyes remained hooded and, despite his elegant bow, he did not reach out to touch Castiel.

Sighing, Castiel motioned at the chair across from him, and decided to lean against his desk for some measure of control and fresh air.

“You requested my presence?” Dean asked, all business. “Your note mentioned your sister was unwell…?”

Castiel nodded sadly. “Indeed, Anna has taken ill. She’s been brought down by some sort of cough. There’s been no blood, so we do not think it consumption.”

Green eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Blood does not immediately or always appear in the sputum. It’s best that I examine her. Are there any females who can assist me and chaperone?”

Blinking, Castiel nodded, surprised by the hard and clinical expression on Dean’s face. It was a new expression, one he had never witnessed before, and he had to wonder how many more new expressions had Dean gained over the years that he could investigate and catalog?

“I will request Mrs. Grange, my housekeeper, to accompany you upstairs. Currently, only Anna’s personal maid has been upstairs with her.”

“I see. Well then, if I may…?”

“Certainly.”

Castiel watched as Dean exited the study and ascended the stairs, his black medical satchel in hand. He motioned to the waiting footman (Gibbs, he thought) and said, “Go fetch Mrs. Grange, please. Ask her to attend on Dr. Winchester in Anna’s room.”

The footman bowed and strode off, and, as Castiel was still staring up towards Anna’s room, Mrs. Grange slipped by him with a quick curtesy. Knowing Anna was in the best hands, as Mrs. Grange walked up the stairs, he said, “Please give Dr. Winchester anything he needs, Mrs. Grange. Anything at all.”

She nodded, her ice blue eyes solemn. “Yes, Your Grace.”

Sighing heavily, Castiel watched her climb for a moment and then returned to his study. He was exhausted and worried, but he had no doubt of Dean’s skill.

* * *

About an hour had passed before Dean reported in to Castiel, coatless and wearing his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows. “Well, I’m not sure what she had contracted before, but her lungs are definitely weaker than average.”

Castiel hummed. “She had a particularly nasty case of Scarlet Fever when she was a toddler. She somehow survived the infection, but her lungs were never as strong as they should be and she’s always had a weaker constitution than most girls.” He chuckled mirthlessly. “It as if life were priming her to be some genus of a gothic heroine.”

“Well, she hasn’t got consumption, so that’s the good news,” Dean said, clapping Castiel on the shoulder kindly. “From her labored breathing and sputum, I would say she currently has pneumonia. The issue may be that she will get worse before she gets better.”

“Pneumonia?” Horrified, Castiel sat heavily on his office chair. “But that often leads to death!”

Dean smiled gently at him. “Cas, I will do my best for her. She will need to follow a strict diet and drink what infusions I insist she take, but you’ll trust me to do right, do you not?”

Swallowing hard, Castiel nodded. “Yes, yes, of course. Please command my household as I would. My sister is too young, too vibrant to die.”

A grim expression flickered over Dean’s face and he said, “Thank you, Cas. I will do my utter best to save her. She has slipped into a fevered state, so if you know where to get ice to cool her, we might be able to bring that down more swiftly.”

“Will you bleed and cup her?” Castiel hated that method of attempting to purify humors in the body.

“Exotic measures may surprise you with their lack of bloodletting,” Dean said with a touch of humor. “Also, I shall require a room for myself to rest, make notes, and prepare tinctures and such.”

Castiel nodded. “Of course. Mrs. Grange should have already prepared the room across the hall from Anna for your stay.”

“And what of Hannah?”

“She is staying at her husband’s London abode while Anna is ill. She was merely staying here for the sake of utility, not for lack of her own address.”

“Wise precaution.” Dean shifted uneasily and asked, “She has children of her own now, correct?”

Sighing, Castiel agreed. “They are still very young so I requested she remain there until I knew the illness wasn’t contagious and was not fatal.”

“I did not say it was not fatal or contagious,” Dean warned, “I merely stated it is treatable and possibly curable.”

“So,” Castiel hazarded, his heart in his throat, “You will be staying with us while Anna is ill?”

Dean nodded with a short huff. “With her history of weak lungs, this will be a battle. Fortunately, she is young and being youthful is a bonus in many medical campaigns.”

“Not every battle,” Castiel replied darkly, recalling how he had lost an older brother to fever before he had been even been born and how later they had nearly lost Anna at twelve to the same influenza that had taken their parents.

“That’s why it’s a campaign, Cas,” Dean snorted, relaxed in his posture, and smiling faintly. “Have you always been so gloomy?”

“I have more reason to be gloomy than usual,” he retorted, pushing off the desk's edge, “So will you be staying?”

Dean licked his lips nervously and murmured, “Yes, I will. With her weak lungs, I’m uncertain that Anna will survive without constant monitoring. If it were anyone with a stronger constitution, I would say I could easily return in the morning. Sadly, it’s testament to her frailty that I will stay.”

Appeased by Dean's decision, while worried for his sister, Castiel tugged the bell pull and Devin responded. “Yes, Your Grace?”

“Please inform Mrs. Granger that Dr. Winchester will be staying with us for the unforeseeable future. Please make sure he has room near Anna’s. Also, he will be joining me for supper tonight. Tell Mrs. Mulligan she needn’t go all out. In fact, some of her mutton pies would be lovely for the Doctor to have for late night eating.” He looked over at Dean and smothered a smile. “I believe apple pie would not go amiss either. The small-sized ones she’s made for outings and travel, if she can.”

Devin bowed. “Yes, Your Grace. Right away.”

Castiel again looked at Dean. “Did you need to send a letter to your home?”

Shaking his head minutely, he replied, “Not as of yet. I would, however, need a footman to fetch my valise. Salabat will know what I require.”

“Indeed.” That came out much colder than he had intended. He ignored Dean’s narrowed gaze and said to Devin, “That is all. Be sure to assign Dr. Winchester a footman to double as a valet and messenger.”

“Yes, Your Grace. As you will.” Devin bowed one last time and slipped out the door.

Stiffly, Dean shallowly bowed and excused himself brusquely.  “I want to check in on Anna, check the broth I requested is being made, and that I clean up to be appropriate for a Duke’s table,” he said rather standoffishly.

Castiel muttered an “Of course, Dean,” and watched the man stride out the door. As the door firmly shut behind the man, Castiel sighed and wiped a hand over his face. He really needed to watch his jealousy. It was unbecoming.

* * *

The next few days, Castiel rarely saw Dean.

Anna had taken a turn for the worst, as Dean predicted. Her fever caused her to cry out deliriously, her lips terrifyingly blue, her breathing harsh and punctuated by painful sounding coughs that racked her thin body so hard, she almost tumbled from the bed. She would settle for moments before being beset by chills, shivering without relief, crying hoarsely from her pained throat.

Although Castiel wanted to assist, he was kept out by Mrs. Grange’s insistence that it was inappropriate. Only her harried and untidy appearance–her hair escaping her bun while her gown was covered in fluids–and Anna’s sobbing kept him out.

Dean was often in Anna’s room, forcing her to drink infusions or broth that Mrs. Mulligan had prepared. She also prepared ices to help cool Anna down, but it wasn’t until the fourth day that the fever broke and there was some peace and quiet that night.

Dean looked spent but relieved when he stumbled downstairs to meet Castiel for supper.

Mrs. Mulligan had the tea board served for them in the study, the room much warmer than the dining room, the small table where they had had tea before used for the courses.

They ate quietly on cold meats and cheeses, fresh fruits and bread, and–especially for Dean–a selection of fruit and meat pies.

The silence wore on Castiel, but he was afraid to break it, seeing as Dean looked exhausted. Still, he had a responsibility as a host and as the brother of the young woman Dean saved. With that in mind, he managed to find the words while playing with a bit of Stilton.

“Thank you.”

Dean looked up blearily from his apple pie, filling glistening on and around his lips as he chewed. “Hng?”

Castiel smiled slightly, unable to hold back a small chuckle. “I said, thank you." He flapped a hand upwards for emphasis. "You know? For saving my sister.”

Dean nodded tiredly. “Of course,” he said through a mouth full of pie, “She’s important to you.”

“She’s not the only one, you realize.”

Dean stopped chewing to stare at him, mouth marginally agape.

Putting down the Stilton and wiping his hands on his napkin, Castiel cleared his throat and tried again. “I mean, I’m sorry that I have been antagonistic of late, but…I have missed you for so long and…” He licked his lips nervously and picked at his napkin’s edge, gaze lowered to observe the loose threads with interest. “I have never forgotten you. And after you stopped writing, I mourned you. Not as dead, you realize, but as lost _to me_.”

“Cas, I–”

Castiel raised a hand to halt Dean. “Please, allow me to finish.” He took a deep breath, pulling his courage together, and, as he exhaled loudly, he stared boldly at the other man. “Dean, I realize that a long time has passed since we were adolescents, but…you kissed me the other day. Did…I mean…do I signify nothing to you?”

Dean’s face colored despite the pallor of his skin, his body seeming to pull in to make himself smaller. He averted his eyes and swallowed with some difficulty. “I apologized for that,” he said lowly, his voice hoarse. “It was not my place.”

“I do believe that is for me to judge,” Castiel parried tartly, “Please inform me what you were thinking?”

Shifting in his seat with discomfort, Dean reached out to his glass of port, downing the contents in a long pull before replacing the glass on the table and reaching for the decanter to refill it with trembling hands.

“I wasn’t thinking, Your Grace,” he evaded, the title causing Castiel to flinch, “I merely reacted.”

“I see. So, you actually did not want me. It was just a fleeting whim, based on our childhood closeness.” He had not meant to sound bitter, but it stung him hard, the admission that it was nothing.

“No!” Flustered, Dean's back tightened with nerves, causing him to quickly sit upright and he reached towards Castiel. “It wasn’t…” He stopped and forced himself to sit back, his hands gripping the arms of the chair. “I don’t…” He rolled his lips in and scowled as he sought to find the words and released his own long, heavy sigh. “I missed you,” he admitted softly, his fingers still white from clutching the chair, “And seeing you so closely…I–” He shook his head, his face reddening.

Hope, a fragile thing in his chest, still caused Castiel’s heart to beat faster.

“Dean,” he whispered longingly, worried that he was hearing what he wanted to hear and not what was being said. He leaned forward minutely, abandoning the napkin he had been attempting to ruin, and asked, “Do you still want me? As I want you? Have always wanted you? Please, speak plainly.”

“It’s not right,” he finally replied, his expression grim. “You are a Duke of the kingdom. I am no one. Just a low-bred doctor who got lucky in masters. Add that love between men is not only discouraged but punished… no, Cas. It’s not right. I bring you nothing but pain and the possibility of being pilloried.”

Dean looked up to him finally, the lines of exhaustion around his eyes and lips evident as the disgust for the suggestion in the rest of his mien. “I’m sorry, Castiel. I cannot.”

Swallowing hard, the hope shattered irrevocably in his chest, Castiel nodded. “I see. And I have no say in whether I believe you are good for me or not? Whether I will risk everything to stay with you than having nothing without you?”

The green eyes fluttered closed in defeat, lashes dark against his again-pale skin. “You deserve so much better,” he said hoarsely, his throat visibly working beneath his cravat. He stumbled to his feet, and–ignoring the pies that had been left for him–bowed swiftly and simply fled the room.

Castiel tried to hold himself together, but tears burned their way down his cheeks. “But you promised me forever,” he whispered to the crackling fire, his head bent, his heart again broken by Dean Winchester.

* * *

The rest of Dean’s stay in the house was fine, as Castiel locked himself in his study and began to plan his surprise voyage to the West Indies and, most likely, the Colonies. He wanted to leave England–and Dean–behind. Far behind.

Anna, thankfully, grew stronger every day, until finally she was able to be escorted to the dining room for a meal. Hannah returned soon after, fussing over Anna, and not very happy, or surprised, at Castiel’s decision that Anna would return to Milton Manor.

"She can still come out next year,” he said firmly, forestalling Hannah’s protests. “She needs to fully recover, and the London air is bad for her lungs.”

Hannah’s lips pressed together into a tight line and she nodded as tightly. “I will inform my husband,” she finally replied, “He will be happy to return to the country as well.”

“You do not have to return,” Castiel insisted, touching her shoulder warmly. “As it is, Anna is not fit for many things, and with her already weak lungs it will be even longer for her to recover.”

“What about the doctor, then?” Hannah inquired. “Will he also be coming to Milton Manor?”

In reality, Castiel had posed the question to Dean before he had returned to his practice. “I am worried about Anna’s continuing health,” he had attempted, “Can I interest you in a position on our land as a local physician? But particularly for Anna’s sake? You have done wonders luring her away from Death’s door.”

Dean had refused, and Castiel attempted to sweeten the pot. “I will not be there,” he’d added, looking at the strain evidenced by the set of Dean’s lips and the defiance in his thrown-back shoulders. “I will be on a voyage to inspect my properties in the West Indies.”

Confusion and then distress had swirled in Dean’s green eyes, but he again refused the offer. “I have my office here with Salabat that we are maintaining, along with treating as many suffering from poverty as we can. I cannot go.”

It had echoed of their late-night conversation, and Castiel had fought against his urge to scream or to snarl his rage. Holding himself only slightly in check, he had nodded tightly and turned away. Dean’s payment had been left by the door for him to collect, as was proper. If Castiel had added funds to help Dean’s charitable efforts, only he and Dean knew.

In front of Hannah, Castiel scowled deeply, his voice hardening, as he replied, “No. He is not attending on Anna at the Manor. He has refused and will be staying here in London.”

Something about his manner seemed to frighten Hannah, as she drew back at his response, eyes wide with fear. “I understand, dear brother,” she murmured, curtsying briefly and fleeing the room.

“Damn it all,” Castiel grumbled, raking his hand through his hair and forgetting there was enough wax in it to make a candle. It only served to make him angrier.

He was going to accompany his sisters back to Milton Manor and then leave the country from the West Indies Docks in London.

Maybe it appeared as if he was running, but there was, to his mind, nothing to run from.


	5. TWO MONTHS LATER (Late 1812)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will this ever work out?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a terrible human being. I forgot to post. Like I TOLD myself all weekend NOT to forget, but I still did. Thus: sorry!!

Castiel had named his merchant ship “Samantha” a few years before in a fit of whimsy and loss, in memory of Dean's little brother. Now, it seemed like an omen as he boarded her, making sure the crew correctly stored the unique British goods he was taking to the West Indies for trade. He had been given the second-best cabin, as he refused the Captain’s suggestion that he take the main quarters. Benny Lafitte, a recruit from the Colonies himself, was a gruff, no-nonsense fellow, and he knew when not to argue, shrugging off Castiel’s refusal and getting on with checking over water and food stocks.

When everything was deemed prepared for their early morning departure the next day, Castiel decided to go to his club to relax and say his farewells to his friends.

He hailed a hackney cab and gave the cabby the address for his club on St. James, then watched the world pass by from the window.

How long had it been since he’d first seen London through a hackney cab’s window? How long had he dreamed of the road to St. Paul's, the crowded swirls of color as men paraded their dresses, and the excited bright face of his dearest friend and love?

Castiel shook his head, not wanting to invite nostalgia. That was where Dean Winchester lived now, in an impossible dream. He had no more desire to tread there. 

If nothing else, he thought as he arrived and paid the cabby, perhaps some cards would distract him?

But even an hour later, having won money at faro and feeling unmotivated, he was edgy and unhappy. He itched to find Dean and try one last time to convince him to come along. But Dean had said no.

Forever is not a very long time, Castiel thought for the thousandth time, bitterly and morosely. He knew his hunger for Dean was unhealthy, but who, looking at the breathtaking doctor, could _not_ want him? When he thought of the heavily muscled shoulders he had gripped when Dean kissed him, the fine waist exhibited by his waistcoat, the endearing wrinkles at the corner of his eyes...no, Dean was not easy to forget. He didn't want to forget; he _had to_ in order to keep moving forward.

As such, while night was swiftly coming on and the chill coming even more swiftly, Castiel decided to leave Brook's as he was irritable and sharp-tongued, his friends avoiding him after his responses grew more and more tart, all while becoming shorter and terser.

They did bid him good luck and so forth, but London reeked of failure to Castiel (even as the fifty new guineas in his pocket proved him wrong).

As he stepped out the door, he found a dark-skinned man in a beautiful turban standing outside. He looked chilled, but stubbornly waiting, his dark brown eyes flicking over each member as they exited the building and dismissing them. Until Castiel stepped onto the pavement, when those dark, liquid eyes darted over him before the man approached.

“Your Grace,” the man said with an elegant bow, “I am not sure if you remember me, but I am Dr. Salabat Jung, at your service.”

Castiel blinked at him, brushing off the burly doorman as he approached, ready to send the interloper off with a flea in his ear.

“Yes,” he said faintly, reddening a bit, “You are Salabat. Dean spoke of you often.” _And you are the object of my unjustified jealousy_ , he thought.

Salabat smiled fondly. “Dean is a good man. He has been a friend and brother to me for many years. He saved my life while we were traveling separately in Persia, when bandits attempted to rob my caravan.”

Swallowing hard, Castiel nodded. “I see. Well, not to be rude, but is there something I can assist you with?”

He caught Salabat’s smirk before it transformed into a winning grin. “I was hoping we might get some coffee nearby and perhaps talk a bit?”

Curiosity nibbled at Castiel, freeing him slightly from his black mood. “Fine. Please lead the way, Your Highness.”

Salabat chuckled and shook his head. “Oh no, my friend, I am no longer a ‘prince’ as you say. I was the youngest son of a king but I preferred medicine to politics.”

“I understand.”

And he did. The pressures of nobility were stifling, sometimes soul-crushing. How many times had Castiel considered casting away his title and running to the Colonies to begin anew where no one knew him?

Salabat nodded and moved to the side to allow Castiel to walk with him. “I thought you might,” he said, still smiling slightly. “Dean implied you had a lot of pressure from your family.”

“I think any son of any noble family, or even gentry, is regularly pressured to be perfect.”

“Even twelfth sons,” Salabat said agreeably, “I was expected to vie for territory and for the throne.” He waved a gloved hand in the air dismissively. “I had no interest in that. Not when Dean and Dr. Singer showed me some of the wonders of modern medicine!”

“I see.” He did see. Dean had worked wonders on Anna, saved her from falling into worse ailments.

They walked along companionably enough until Salabat paused in front of a coffee shop that was rather small and quaint. “My friend Andrew’s shop. He and his twin Ansem are good people, even if Ansem is often not well.”

Implying that Ansem's health was why Salabut was familiar with the place. Fair enough.

Nodding, he entered as Salabat opened and held the door for him. The shop smelled of dark sugar and coffee, and unsurprisingly, with the decline of coffeeshop popularity, had few customers. Salabat motioned Castiel towards an empty corner, and then waved at the young man at the counter and flashing two fingers.

“As you might guess, my Father was not pleased with my decision,” Salabat continued as they removed their great coats, hats, and gloves, hanging the first two items on the proper pegs, and took a seat with their gloves to the side. “But Dean made a case for me before my Father and helped me escape to this new world.”

“So, you love him?” Again, bitter jealousy rose in Castiel’s throat, making him much sharper than usual. He tried to swallow it down, but it was as if a peach stone had lodged there, the sharp tip gouging into him. Later, he would be embarrassed at his own crassness, but now he was too deeply distressed to care.

Salabat, however, stared at Castiel quizzically. “Indeed,” he answered, as the young man dropped the two coffees in front of them, “I do love him. Thank you, Andy.”

“Y’want a bit o’cake wit that? There’s a nice set of fritters me brother’s made!” The young man (Andy) grinned gap-toothed and friendly.

“I do not. Your Grace?”

Castiel shook his head brusquely, mentally listening to the last shards of hope in his chest fragment and fall into his bubbling morass of self-loathing and despair. _Perhaps_ , he thought numbly, _I should just search out a bride? What else do I have to look forward to? Children may enliven me, at least._

Andy disappeared with a wave, and Salabat went back to staring at Castiel curiously. “And yet, I somehow suspect my love and your love are not the same,” he said slowly, sloe eyes tracing over Castiel’s face. “Yet, it is most likely the same love Dean holds for you, but not for me.”

Confused, Castiel scowled at the man before him, a proud princelet who was playing at lover in his place. “I do not understand your meaning,” he answered curtly, “Please clarify yourself.”

Salabat chuckled and his long, brown fingers encircled the coffee cup for its warmth. “You Englishmen are all the same. Impatient and refusing to look for meaning, demanding it be told to you instead.”

Castiel opened his mouth to give him a ringing verbal blow when Salabat forestalled him with a raised hand again, his eyes closed and his head shaking. “No, Your Grace. Your love and my love are not equal. I love Dean as a brother, as someone who I have learned much with and someone I have survived many battles with.” He opened his eyes and regarded Castiel critically. “Dean mourns you more so here and now than he ever did in the deserts of Asia. Something I cannot abide, as his sadness breaks my heart.”

He plucked a pile of letters from his inner pocket, at least thirty in the small packet, tied together with a red string. “Here. These are the letters Dean did not send you. There was no mail service for most of those two years in the rural areas of Russia and China. But we learned a lot from the people, the village doctors, the shaman, and the women.” Salabat smiled depreciatingly. “Regardless, I have taken them from his chest and brought them to you, so that you learn something from my undoubtedly closed-mouthed friend.”

Salabat passed over the packet, ignoring Castiel shock, and, as he stood, he bent to press a hand to Castiel's shoulder. “I realize you are leaving soon. Dean has been watching your ship’s preparation with great focus. I wish you well, Your Grace.” He shrugged on his coat, put on his gloves, and again bowed beautifully, waving to Andy as he walked out.

Castiel stared at the pile of letters in his palm, realizing Dean had _not_ forgotten him. He had _not_ just abandoned him…

Carefully, he untied the packet and plucked the first one on the top. It was dated September 1800.  

 

 

>                 _Dear Cas:_
> 
> _Happy eighteenth birthday, my dear friend! I am sitting in a skin tent called a yurt. It is pleasant enough for a temporary dwelling, as we are travelling through Mongolia with some Turkestan nomads. It is very hot here in the summer, but currently the weather is pleasant with the feeling of impending snow._
> 
> _Cas, be happy that wolves have been mostly eradicated from England. They are terrifying and so terribly clever! We have been beset a few times, but have fortunately only lost a goat and some supplies to those dark marauders!_
> 
> _I have learned a lot about folk medicine, but Bobby and me have taught more about Western Medicine to these people._
> 
> _I wish I had better means to reach you. God knows when I will be able to send you these letters. We have not seen a city in months now._
> 
> _Love you always,_
> 
> _Dean_
> 
> * * *
> 
>   _Dear Cas,_
> 
> _The Himalayas are so large it is hard to express it…_
> 
> * * *
> 
>   _Dear Cas,_
> 
> _Bagdad is not what it used to be, but it is still lively…_
> 
> * * *
> 
>   _Dear Cas,_
> 
> _You would not believe how proficient I have become with a saber…_
> 
> * * *
> 
>   _Dear Cas,_
> 
> _I fear this will be my last letter for some time. I have run out of paper from the journal you gave me, and I haven’t the means to procure more. We are in the steppes of Russia, where things are incredibly bleak. That is despite the waves of immigration the Russian Czarina has permitted into the country to boost the population and to build more agriculture. Or so I think._
> 
> _I turned 24 last week, and Russia is bitterly, bitterly cold in January. I miss the milder winters of England, which seem brutal and harsh until you try to live through a Russian winter in a poorly-made cabin._
> 
> _I miss you, my friend. I hope I can see you soon. We are to travel to Glasgow when we arrive in England in order for me to start my official education in medicine, although I have been practicing medicine for half of my life. I look forward to new advances I have heard of in Scotland. I also look forward to being home. Perhaps, if God is kind, I will see you again?_
> 
> _Love to you,_
> 
> _Dean_

So many letters. So many ending with "Love, Dean." 

He wasn't entirely sure what to do with this information. Castiel rubbed his forehead and sighed heavily, and then slowly, carefully, re-tied the packet with the red string. 

Andy had been watching him from the counter, looking ready to spring forward if Castiel needed anything, but what he needed right now was some peace to think about the letters and his own attachment to Dean.

"I suppose I still must think of a wife," he grumbled gloomily, retrieving his great coat and hat with another heavy sigh. The letters, he knew, meant nothing. Dean had stopped writing years ago. He had Salabat and his career to concentrate on. Dean had even let slip that Dr. Singer had moved back to Bath, citing old age, too many old arrow wounds, and a desire for peace and quiet. He didn't need Castiel anymore, so Castiel had to let go of his youthful crush and allow himself to breathe.

If only he knew how.

* * *

The next morning, Castiel awoke to the extremely loud and annoying sound of seagulls. He had stayed in his cabin instead of returning to his house, which was being closed up for the Season as he had requested. 

But, perhaps it was not the sound of seagulls that had awakened him, he thought blearily, as there was shouting going on outside the ship, something beyond the usual cries of the seamen working to get the ship prepared to sail.

"Damn you! Let me pass! CAAAAS!!"

"Sorry, Brother, but if you take one unauthorized step on this ship, I will knock you out and call the Bobbies!"

"I just–CAAAAS! C'MON CAS! PLEASE!"

Drawing on his boots and slipping on his great coat, Castiel stumbled out of his cabin, shading his eyes against the persistent morning sun and wishing he had his hunting rifle to be rid of those birds. "What the devil is going on here!"

"CAS!"

The Captain was on the dock, holding Dean back from boarding the ship. Castiel blinked in shock and spat out, "Dean?!"

"Cas! Please! I need to speak to you!" Dean looked wrecked, his eyes red and his face pale. His hair was messy, his face unshaven, and he looked to have dressed in a hurry, some buttons incorrectly done, while not even wearing a hat and his great coat sitting askew on his frame.

Surprise made Castiel stare at him for a long time, before saying, "Let him on, Captain Lafitte. I would hear him speak."

Benny eyed Dean hard and said sharply, "Yer gonna behave, Brother, or yer goin' in the drink, no matter _what_  'is Grace says about it."

Nodding, Dean pushed past the burly Captain in a shot and rushed up the gangplank to where Cas was standing, enfolding the shocked man in his arms. "I'm sorry! Please Cas, don't leave!"

"I don't understand," Castiel muttered into Dean's shoulder.

Dean pulled back and gripped Castiel's shoulders. "I...I spoke to Salabat, and he said he had spoken to you and that not only are you leaving permanently but that you said you were done with me forever." Tears sprang into those (reddened) green eyes that he loved. "I-I know what I said, but _please_ , I beg you, do not leave me! We only moved to London to be closer to you, otherwise, we would've followed Bobby to Bath!"

Definitely confounded, Castiel did not know where Salabat had gotten the idea he was going to try and escape to permanently get over Dean. Adding to that confusion was Dean's admission, and, had Castiel been a maiden, he was certain he would have fainted.

"Dean, I–"

Shaking his head, Dean stuttered out, "I-I never forgot you. I n-never stopped loving you. I just...you need a w-wife. An heir. I realized that soon after seeing you in your element and surrounded by your peers. You need so much more than I can give you. But..." He licked his lips and his fingers dug into Castiel's shoulders. "Cas, I _need_ you. Only thinking of you here in England, waiting for me, kept me going on so many nights. Each time I nearly died, I pushed myself to come back to you. Please, don't leave!"

Reaching up to touch Dean's hand on his shoulder, Castiel replied solemnly, "Dean, I'm coming back."

Dumbfounded, Dean instantly stilled, even as his mouth dropped open and he stared uncomprehendingly. "W-what?"

Castiel lowered his eyes and chuckled lightly, his shoulders shaking up and down with mirth. "I think your dear friend has played a prank on you, on us _both_ really." He grinned and continued, "Dean, recall that I told you I am leaving for a few months to look over the estates my Father had invested in. I was planning to return after sorting things out. After all, Anna will still need to be presented next Season." Chuckling, he concluded, "I would love to hear how Salabat got you to think I was leaving permanently. It must be quite the story!"

"That sonofa–" Dean snapped then shook his head, blushing brightly. "I'm going to kill him," he muttered darkly, looking away from Castiel and licking his lips nervously. A stray breeze tousled his disheveled hair even as he raked a disbelieving hand through it.

Captivated and emboldened by Dean's confession, Castiel reached out and tugged on a free button on Dean's waistcoat. "Do you think you could kill him later? Such as in a few months' time?"

Bewildered, Dean shifted his gaze back to him, the red rims of his bloodshot eyes testament to his worry and sleeplessness. He asked, "Why?"

"I was thinking, this time, perhaps you would accompany _me_ on an adventure." Castiel smiled hopefully, face hot. "Perhaps show me your impressive saber skills?"

Dean stared at the suggestive wiggle of Castiel's brows, something so incongruous with his general demeanor, he broke up laughing. "I see what you're after," he chortled.

"Well?"

They fell into staring at each other, and Castiel suffered from hope slowly resurrecting in his chest. And then Dean broke into a smile and nodded. "It's everything I ever dreamed of," he said, leaning in and dropping a chaste kiss on Castiel's lips. "An adventure with you."

"A life with you," Castiel murmured, gripping Dean's cravat with one hand to hold him close. "Forever this time."

"Forever," Dean agreed, "As promised."

* * *

# Epilogue

A month into the journey, both men were finally more accustomed to the ship's tight quarters and the unruly rolls of the ocean. Castiel had been sick for nearly two weeks, not having left England more than once to accompany his Father, and again to visit some sheep breeders in Scotland. Neither were exceedingly fond memories and, at the beginning, had been already regretting this voyage.

Instead, he had pushed through it, and now, here with Dean, it was all a new adventure. They were not judged on the ship and freely showed each other affection, although kisses were not permitted, of course. (They knew propriety's limits, even if their audience were all foul-mouthed sailors.)

It helped that Captain Lafitte threatened to keelhaul anyone who dared speak against the two men. But overall, they were left to their own devices, with only an occasionally poorly-timed interruption from the cabinboy, Garth. The poor, gangly lad was all elbows, knees, and ears, but he really liked Dean and followed him around like a puppy between his chores, scraping up any bit of attention or learning.

Captain Lafitte also seemed extremely fond of Dean, which bothered Castiel to no end. The careless, happy laughter that came from their drinking together and speaking in some wild dialect Castiel didn't understand drove him quite insane with jealousy and often led to his dragging Dean back to their cabin and fucking like rutting bucks.

He was unable to help himself, and now that he did not have to hold back, Castiel would nip and bite at the freckled skin of Dean's shoulders, grip his hips hard enough to leave fingertip-sized bruises, leaving Dean cursing Castiel's jealousy, all while gasping, "Oh, yes! Right there! Please, Cas!"

And mixed in with the wild sex were the nights where they would just enjoy each other's company. Or, like tonight, as they sat on the deck, huddled together while sharing a blanket and a bottle of rum, watching the stars glitter over the shifting ocean, and making promises to each yet again.

"I feared I would never see you again," Castiel confessed, rubbing his stubbled cheek against the rough cloth of Dean's shirt. "I was planning to take a wife, just because nothing mattered without you." He chuckled faintly, his breath misting in the air. "I don't even know what I would do with a wife? Leave her in London to her own devices? That's what so many of my married friends do with their wives..."

Dean leaned his head against Castiel's crown, sighing deeply. "I wouldn't have blamed you. That's why I wanted to leave you be. When I returned and found what a glorious noble you had grown up to be, I despaired. What could the orphaned son of a blacksmith and newly made doctor give you?"

Castiel took the strong, long-fingered hand and weaved their fingers together, pushing up the dimpled chin with his other hand, and whispered, "Everything," as he firmly kissed those precious lips. 

**FIN**


End file.
